She felt the bedsprings coil as he moved from his seated position, entranced. "I have not many days,—perhaps, not many hours to live. She could smell him almost as strongly as she could the new paint on the fire escape walls, along with the wool suit and the weird polyester smell of his wet umbrella. She was a schizophrenic, got locked up later in some sort of state mental ward. He entered the room with his usual deliberation, and looked covertly about him. “It was inevitable,” he declared. “It’s the warming up of the year, the coming of the light mornings, the way in which everything begins to run about and begin new things.
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