I got off the city-tram last night, and turned up a narrow alley-way, that led to the bus-stop for my connecting ride home. The doors to coffee-shops were closed; a black umbrella lay broken in one corner; and on the concrete ground was imbedded a message of the heart. Somebody loved somebody who loved her art. Beyond the lamp-glow an abstract shape was pressed up against the wall. One face disappeared into another, his body heaving against hers. As softly as I could, I padded hurriedly away. At the top of the road I stole another glance: there, the past gathered out of the darkness, and the dead raised itself in front of me, and the dead and the past flowed into the present among the alive, so that I had for an intense instant a vision of denseness, into which I became compacted, from which I could not escape, and had no wish to escape.