Somehow
his brain had been so tired and
crowded that he had forgotten.
"Forgotten." He mentally
repeated the word as he got out of bed.
By this time to-morrow he should
have forgotten everything. THIS
TIME TO-MORROW. His mind repeated
that also, as he began to dress
himself. Where should he be? Should
he be anywhere? Suppose he
awakened again--to something as
bad as this? How did a man get
out of his body? After the crash
and shock what happened? Did one
find oneself standing beside the Thing
and looking down at it? It would
not be a good thing to stand and
look down on--even for that which
had deserted it. But having torn
oneself loose from it and its devilish
aches and pains, one would not care
--one would see how little it all
mattered. Anything else must be
better than this--the thing for
which there was a scientific name
but no healing. He had taken all
the drugs, he had obeyed all the
medical orders, and here he was after
that last hell of a night--dressing
himself in a back bedroom of a
cheap lodging-house to go out and
buy a pistol in this damned fog.
He laughed at the last phrase of
his thought, the laugh which was a
mirthless grin.
"I am thinking of it as if I was
afraid of taking cold," he said.
"And to-morrow--!"
There would be no To-morrow.
To-morrows were at an end. No
more nights--no more days--no
more morrows.
He finished dressing, putting on
his discriminatingly chosen shabby-
genteel clothes with a care for the
effect he intended them to produce.
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