When he wakes up from his sleep and when he falls asleep in the gloomy morning and the joyful evening, he repeats, raving: No, there is no time left, there is no time for death, he sniffs the trail on the threshold as a wolf sniffs his urine in a moment of fury in the circle he drew for departure. There is no time for the phrase to shiver from the cliff of his being, falling from the trees of the deep unconscious, blocking the horizons and roads for him, and sometimes raining on the body of a woman who illuminates the end of the dark tunnels.