Nothing tells memories from ordinary moments; only afterwards do they claim remembrance on account of their scars. That face, which was to be a unique image of peacetime to carry with him through the whole wartime, he often wondered if he had ever seen it or if he had dreamed a lovely moment to catch-up with the crazy moment that came next but this time there flowed inside her at last the first trickle of black blood. The initial moment was one of pain. As if the world had shriveled up so that this blood might flow. She stood there, hearing that first bitter oil drip as into a grotto, the shunned female. Her strength was still imprisoned between the bars, but something incomprehensible and warm, something incomprehensible, was happening, something that tasted in the mouth like happiness - and I was afraid. She frightens me because she can knock me down with a word. Because she does not know that writing is walking on a dizzying silence setting one word after the other on emptiness - like the flight of a bird phantom without wings who flings itself out only to find wings in flight.