FACING THE FOURTH X.

Towards forty, man thus slowly takes stock of his own selfish things; he may have no virtue, only his faults and faults to read on his head. He may know very well that he is alone, like his little finger, or an aged father. Perhaps he could scarcely perceive that his dear life of One is gone, and can have no continuance. With a walking stick he knocks out his decades.

There's no telling what more they'll demand of her: her preserved memories, her wounded past, her uncertain future, the tawdry loves of romances that have seen better days. He wonders more and more often, and even now the big, selfish child he was cannot touch him, still dwells in a little corner of his soul, pushing away those he does not trust. His childhood haunts him continually, whether he needs it or not.

He searches his own wrinkled, furrowed face, his dove's wax curls in his distorted, grotesque mirror image, or in the faces of his children, and cannot understand: has Life played a mocking, murderous joke on him, or has only the Hangman Time become more and more predictable, more and more perceptive?! He is even a little angry that everyone, from neighbours to family members, says: "You have become useless! His grown-up children promise him more and more, persuading him that they will visit him one day, that he will see, that he will just hold on a little longer, but locked in the prison of his body, a secret countdown is on guard, secretly on watch!