Mental activity functions only sporadically. Scattered reminiscences: two children travel into the woods, find a house coated with the sweetest gingerbread. They would love a taste. The owner of the house would love a taste too, would absorb them completely. I know of a store of pure canned goods. I would love a taste. The owners of the store sure would love a taste too, they would absorb me completely. So I stay on the floor. Dying of hunger is not easy – starvation does the strangest things to people. Memory weakened, the common cannot survive, the mutual history is erased. I cannot remember anything outside this room. Before the time that is now, all has disappeared into oblivion. All but the storage of preserves and the sweet house of cake. I am so cold and it is so dark and I so dearly wish to return to the womb. So desperate we are, trying to postpone the day of the doom. All is slowed down. Even the nourishment. Disappearing softly through torpor and all shall diminish into the womb: the hole from which we entered, here shall we exit, ever shrinking fetuses.
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