On ubiraet volosy s moego lba i gromko plachet. Ia nikogda ne slyshala, chtoby on plakal. Dazhe kogda umerla mama. On szhimaet moiu ruku s siloi, o sushchestvovanii kotoroi v ego starom tele ia ne podozrevala, i vspominaiu, chto ia - eto vse, chto u nego est', i chto on opiat', kak i ran'she, - ves' moi mir. Krov' prodolzhaet v speshke nestis' po moemu telu. Skorei, skorei, skorei. My vsegda speshim. Mozhet byt', ia opiat' speshu. Mozhet byt', mne eshche ne vremia ukhodit'.