It was too much and it dropped him too quickly — this was not supposed to be done like this, it was dangerous. He knew that, still nothing could have prepared him. He felt like the floor beneath him and everything he could see of the space around him twisted and bore in on him. In his desperation, he violently clenched around the only thing that felt real, which was Don Juan.

It was maybe a minute of annihilation, of what he could scarcely understand to be himself and his body. His stomach was devoid of anything to get out; there was only a trickle of silvery poison and bile that mixed with the blood that ran copiously out of his nostrils, over his mouth and down his chin, dripping on whatever was beneath him. He did not strangle Don Juan in the end. He did not think so.

Up and down had not yet reestablished itself. His head lay against something warm. He felt cold and everything was wet, like someone had poured out a bucket of water over him. His face was wet too, with sweat or with tears he did not know. Sober, announced a voice in his head, like he had arrived with a train at a station. He did not want to get off here, he thought. He tried to open his eyes.

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