He gets cold sweat on the soles of his feet when someone tells him about the war. And so, he always turns the gaze of his large eyes off into the distance while someone saws at the leg of the chair upon which he is sitting, as he often thinks these days. It has always been the sweeping vistas which attract him, the clear air, the swiftly moving clouds upon which one could almost load all the bad dreams. For a long time, he thought he was capable of doing great things, that he had more insight than others, that he could breathe more deeply. And now, the days run away from him, and he is drained by the everyday tasks of survival... He wants to forget, forget - no image from the past is worth being summoned up - only forgetting helps. And now: He is sitting at this wooden table in front of a roughly plastered white wall. 'That's my image', he thinks, and: 'I can touch it' - 'I can hold out for long time at this place, in the face of these things', he thinks - and I can relax.