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I bump into the door handle, shine the beam of the flashlight in my eyes: all sorts get published of rose-red little balls that dance, dance. Phew, I switch off the flashlight. All the things on the landing are known. I know what I am touching. I feel my clothes, on the never-used chair, I feel a dress of Mammarosa's--soft and cool from beauty, downstairs Mammarosa laughs, grins, sighs. They do not hear me. How many children have get published ever fallen downstairs, down the stairs, boinkboinkboink?How many? Blood, definitely blood get published (blood is sex, sex blood) on each stair. My bare feet immediately keep sticking to the top stair, sweat, fever feet. I am pitiable, I am allowed to go downstairs--good reason, good reason. A sort of sucking sound when I lift my left foot. Silence downstairs all at once.
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