Stauk's nerves were shot. Awakened at dawn, stood up against a wall, handed a final cigarette, and executed. Inconsolable, Stauk walked in circles. It was Stauk's practice to walk in circles, or, in a desperate pinch, in a straight line. Never in a triangle, or rectangle, or hendecagon, or rhombus. The very thought of walking in a rhombus nauseated Stauk. The very thought of walking in a triangle terrified Stauk.
As for the hendecagon, it was sheer madness. Stauk's cats might walk in hendecagons, but never Stauk. He would sooner throw himself out the window, if his room had a window, his room used to have a window, where was Stauk's window?
Then Stauk remembered. They'd seized it!
Stauk would never forget it. The hour was late. The light was dim. Stauk was in the midst of Stauk's favorite fantasy. In he, he was lying on a hospital bed. The hour was early. The light was bright. He was waiting for the doctor to come and pronounce him dead. Stauk quivered with anticipation. Some patients dreaded being told by the medical authorities that they were dead but not Stauk. The pronouncement of Stauk's death promised to be Stauk's finest hour. They would pronounce Stauk dead and then they would burn his bedclothes, just to be on the safe side. Then after they were finished burning Stauk's bedclothes they would burn burn Stauk, because you couldn't be certain. Then when they were done burning Stauk they would burn Stauk's ashes, because it was always better to err on the side of caution.
In the midst of this revery, a knock. The landlady wanted Stauk's window. Actually she wanted Stauk's entire room. She said to Stauk, "I can give you another room without a window in it." Stauk would gladly have traded rooms with anyone. Instead, he threw a fit. He fell to the floor and rolled around. Rolling around on the floor was Stauk's idea of negotiating.
Stauk, if roll he must, made a practice of rolling in a circle. Or, in a desperate pinch, in a straight line. Never in a triangle or a rectangle or a hendecagon or rhombus. If Stauk's landlady had questioned this practice, Stauk would have refused to answer. He was under no obligation to discuss the geometrical principles underlying his preferred method of locomotion with anyone.
Stauk stood at the wall where his window used to be. He was uncertain if he was in a new room or still in his old room but with the window removed, his beloved window, with its view of the old canal, which he despised! For the last thing Stauk wanted was a room with a view, the very thought of a view disgusted Stauk. A view! It was madness. But a window, ah, there was nothing Stauk loved more than a window, even the sight of a window made Stauk feel like a child again, naked and helpless and waiting for the ax.
Nerves shot, and walking in a circle, Stauk began to talk. Stauk never talked. Talking was one of the many hobbies Stauk had refused to take up, along with falconry, hurling, stamp-collecting, macrame, crab soccer, and acting in elaborate theatrical performances. Stauk had only one hobby, and that was dying. After years of practice he still wasn't very good at it.
Let the hours fly! said Stauk, speaking of Stauk's lifelong dream to Stauk. He said other things as well. Where they all came from, he had no idea. Such a store of useless words, pouring out of Stauk like shit! He rattled on! Stauk filibustered himself!
Perhaps he would talk himself to death!
There he went again, getting his hopes up.
