Date: Sat, 04 Aug 2001 10:52:53 +0000
From: J C <doesnt1@hotmail.com>
Subject: My Holiday in Eastern Europe chapter 2

Dedicated to Andrew my best friend and talented writer, who else.  The idea
of this story comes from Andrew's story with the same title. It
belongs to him.


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"Prostitute." This word is interesting, in such a professional way, like 
"sodomy," which would let you immediately think of some medical term. I lay 
lazily on the bed and was waiting for the first ray of sunshine to touch me. 
It was the moralist's reproach towards the good old society made by some 
noble man that would at the same time frighten them when they were about to 
speak this word, in a most secret way, carefully so as not to arouse the 
suspicion of their noble companion towards their motivation of this kind of 
interests in people living in another world, so that their curious little 
atrophied brains would not betray their words. "Money is the devil, the 
devil," they remarked and watched the teenagers at the side of the road with 
piteous faces, then drove away.

They're right anyway. When you were looking at the money, it simply made you 
feel guilty, which is rare in your daily wet dream. Funny isn't it? When you 
have paid, you don't dare to look at his or her eyes, because a soul lies in 
the body, which keeps itself from the trade and looks down from a high place 
and can't be sold with the flesh. It is a fairy, uncatchble, uncontrollable. 
You can't see it, talk with it or touch it. The rhythm of the body is not 
the language of it. It was somewhere else, not in this room and with you. 
Yes, the soul beneath the skin is exactly the one that destroys all your 
imagination about a romantic night. Is it different that you sometimes may 
imagine a boy in your class or someone else you happened to look at on the 
Internet and in your wet dreams did the same thing? Perhaps the moments you 
face a soul are just like the moments a murderer finds his victim still 
alive, the most obvious evidence to prove his criminality. And the money was 
the notorious accessory of the recognition that the soul that didn't belong 
to you. It made you feel wrong and expelled the exquisite and beautiful 
means of the thing itself. But take a look at this world we live in. We've 
given up so many things for money, then why not the body? There's no reason 
for confession. Did it really hurt so much?

I was afraid that my twisted mind would make me a saint. I was not one of 
them and didn't intend to be among them. Now I just hoped he would knock at 
my door.

I looked at the watch; it was just a little past eight. I called the service 
and had them send the breakfast. Sandwiches and orange juice, nothing worth 
appreciation nor complaint. To kill time is not an easy thing. I picked up a 
book and began reading.

I heard a knock at the door. It must be him! I was excited, although I 
couldn't find why I was excited since I didn't know what I was planning to 
do that day. I opened the door and found him waiting there, and staring at 
the door.

"Um...Hey."

"Hey."

"So come in." I let him in. He sat on the bed in the same place as 
yesterday.

"I want you to be my guide today. Are you familiar with this city? Um...what 
about 5000 forint a day?" I knew he wouldn't refuse.

He stared at me for a while and spoke. "But...I am not a tour guide."

"That doesn't matter. I just want to go with somebody, all right?"

"...Okay," he finally consented.

"Then what do you think we should start with? Any suggestion?" I had to 
admit that he was more attractive to me than those 'historically rich' 
places; a man is more complicated and interesting than a city of bricks and 
it was harder to look into the inner part of it.

He suggested we start with the Varhegy (Castle Hill) which was for many 
centuries the seat of monarchs, and its palace, museums, churches. Then we 
set off. The baroque street there was a wonderful place to start 
sightseeing. I was surprised at his knowledge about those museums and other 
places, which was far beyond my expectations of a street boy. He would be a 
good tour guide I think. I was a bit involved in a normal tourist's mood. I 
found I had eventually fallen in love with this old city. The splendid 
places were in an atmosphere of Renaissance, medieval or even earlier times. 
The grand building and interior was the past glory of this country that 
would never fade. It is not a city as old as Rome or Athens, but it has a 
beauty of a different kind; I don't know what it is, not... but peaceful. It 
was a romantic city and a good place for a romantic story.

Half a day had passed and we had only visited a few places. I looked at the 
tourists running from one door of a museum to another. They didn't know how 
to tour, although their happy faces told me they really enjoyed the running. 
Just listening to his voice was a pleasure for me. And we sometimes chatted, 
although only on something inside the museum. But it was chatting, not 
question and answer. He smiled and laughed. The smile was as beautiful as 
the sunshine outside. It was a good beginning.

We stopped at a cafe to have a little rest. It was already at noon and time 
for lunch too. I ordered beef and wine. He did the same.

It would be boring to sit there and eat. I decided to continue our 
conversation and find out something about him. Was I too curious about 
another's secrets? I didn't know whether I would invade his privacy or not. 
Privacy was an excuse indeed. We needed something that keeps a certain 
distance between people, a safe line. It might be a risk. But risk made 
things exciting.

"Um... your English is very good." A stupid one!

"Thanks, I learned it at school."

"Well, then what did you study in school then?" A more stupid topic--school. 
It was among those things I fortunately could escape from during this nice 
holiday.

"... Ballet..." he answered.

"What?! Ballet?" For a while, I had thought it was a Hungarian word.

"Um... Ballet...you know...dancing?" He must have thought that he had made a 
mistake of pronunciation and tried to explain to me that ballet was a kind 
of dancing.

"You mean... the Swan Lake?" It was the only ballet I could think of at that 
moment. At least I knew a little about Tchaikovsky.

"Yes, exactly." His face blushed a little.

"So...it's...interesting." I didn't know how to reply. Although there's 
another word in my mind--"weird"--but I was really very interested in him. 
It was partly because a ballerino was as rare today as a gay in the last 
century. (Even the word itself was dying and being replaced by ballerina, 
which indicates the female dancer who occupies the stage. What life would be 
for a ballerino was so mysterious to a university student who majored in 
science, who knew actually nothing about it at all, and partly because I had 
fallen into the imagination of his appearance in the tight white clothes 
that intimately kissed EVERY inch of him.

"And you dance on your toes and circle...Em...I mean...." Later I remembered 
the right word was "pirouette".

"Hahaha...right." He laughed. "But not that simple...I love dancing. It is 
my life." He spoke, passionately like an artist talking about his favorite 
painting.

"It must be an exciting way of living," I said.

"But not an easy way to earn a living..." he added and his eyes were 
darkened. This remark made me felt a little sad. The reality is not as 
beautiful as the hope should be.

"Then what about your family...?" I at once realized that it was not a 
proper question. Maybe I was pushing it too far. The success of talking to 
me just made me lose my mind. I was about to apologize.

But he replied: "My family? My father suicided some years ago. I don't quite 
remember. And my mother flew away to America, left us an apartment and a 
foreign telephone number. But I lost it long ago. So the family is only my 
sister and I."

"I am sorry..." I murmured.

"It's okay." He finished his cup of coffee and played with a card placed on 
the table.

I couldn't find anything to talk about at that moment. It seemed any topic 
would inevitably run into the miserable part of the story.

I looked out of the window. It was the same as it had been a few minutes 
ago. Maybe only I felt the difference. But the world wouldn't care about a 
boy's story, his pain or his memory. I wondered whether his previous 
customers had asked him such questions before. And how he replied to them. 
But I guess not. They were in a rush to finish an intercourse. There wasn't 
enough time for asking. Then I began to think about Pushkin's If You Find 
that Life Deceives You:

If you find that life deceives you,
do not sorrow, do not rage!
On the day of grief, find peace:
The day for joy, believe, will come.
In the future lives the heart;
though the present may be cheerless,
All's ephemeral, all will pass;
what has passed, shall dearer be.

Life ought to be beautiful, but it failed, at least in my mind. Crying was 
deeper than laughter. I was lost in my thoughts when I suddenly felt soft 
warmth cover my hand.

I looked up surprised and found it was his hand. I was distinctly excited 
but also puzzled by his sudden action.

"I want to say thank you," he said. "Really thanks very much."

"But why?" I couldn't understand

"'Cause you're different from the people I encountered before. You are a 
friend."

That was a moment I felt I was moved deeply in heart. I used to think it 
couldn't happen. For me life and world were lacking of beauty that could 
move me. I am cynical, that's what I am content to be. But why? By chance I 
was somebody who was different or important in another person's life. What 
might this bring to him? Maybe it would mean a lot more than I thought, a 
romance or a love I expected or as simple as a friendship, which are all 
rare today. I did deserve that title, a friend. Only by chance I did, at 
least I thought I did something. Pushkin once held an old beggar's hand in 
the freezing winter of St. Petersburg. He did like this too. What did he 
feel at that time? I didn't know why the other people couldn't see a man as 
different to them, yet as a friend. A friend, what a marvelous word! Anyway 
I was excited.

I stammered as a result of my speeding-up heart beat, "...not at all...my 
friend."

He gently held my hands and smiled at me. I smiled as well. Sometimes 
silence was more useful than words. Messages were transferring through our 
eyes, hands and hearts. Mixed feelings; I couldn't even tell what it was 
exactly. I thought I had just read a thousand words in a page or more than 
that. At the same time, I felt now I was closer to him. Not physically but 
mentally, like platonic love.

We sat in that coffee shop for a long time. Two hours maybe, I've forgotten 
the time. The gray of Budapest just didn't bother me any more. Life appeared 
in different shape according to the mood of people. But...I don't know, 
things were too good to be true. Or maybe I suspected too much. It was 
simple and beautiful as in an authentic fair tale.

We walked out and drove to the next place to continue my visit. I caught 
sight of a father and his son standing outside of a gorgeous restaurant 
while waiting for the green light. The child was peeping into the glass 
windows and his father was looking nervously at the waiter at the door. 
Their shabby clothes would get them into trouble if someone inside happened 
to consider them to be spoiling their luxurious banquet. Inside and outside 
were two worlds. And ten centimeters was the width of the abyss between 
these two. I turned to look at him. He was looking out aimlessly. The 
distance between us was perhaps only ten centimeters, too.

That afternoon went quickly. I always believed that sweet things didn't have 
to last long and they never lasted long enough. It was the end of a perfect 
day

"It's evening." I said.

"Yes." he replied shortly.

"Do you need to go home?" I asked. I looked at the watch. It was about six

"... No... em... you know I usually stay up late...my sister always takes 
care of herself." Saying this, he looked at his watch too, apparently still 
a little worried.

"Listen, it doesn't matter, really, if you have something to do..."

"No...no...really. It's better to stay in the car than wait in the street 
outside."

Was it a joke? It was perhaps a bitter kind of humor. "So..." I paused. "Do 
you have any idea that how should we spend this night?"

"Em...I don't know..." he shrugged .

"What about just walking around?"

"Okay." He smiled and consented.

I parked my car at some place. The streetlamps were shining and there were a 
lot of people on the street. Rich people in their expensive fur and foreign 
tourists with amazed eyes mixed with beggars, ramblers, and of course some 
boys and girls.

Listening to a language that I didn't understand was an interesting point of 
the trip. I liked looking at people passing me and at the same time, didn't 
know why I did this. What would a life lacking of reason be?

"It is a beautiful country... amazing." I spoke to Zoltan.

"Yes..." he replied. "What about your country, Australia? Sydney is a 
beautiful city, isn't it?"

The grass is always greener on the other side, as the old saying goes. But 
it's really interesting that a remote land for exiling would finally win 
itself a reputation as beautiful. It was warm in my homeland. And the sun 
seemed brighter as well as the life on the other side of the Earth. "Yes, 
yes... Sydney... but I came from another city; Adelaide, somewhere in South 
Australia."

"It must be a wonderful city."

I was staring at the old buildings. When they were built, there was 
definitely no city in Adelaide. "Yes...it is... em ...a comfortable place." 
Hard to find a word to sum up a city

"I grew up here." he said and continued walking along the wall.

"Really?" What kind of life would it be in such a city? Certainly different 
from the warm autumn days in Adelaide.

"Yeah." He replied

But researching into one's life would be a labor in vain. It might have been 
just as well to keep it mysterious to me than to dig into others' world.

"I always dreamt that I would be born in someplace else, such as Australia."

I stared at him and smiled. A smile can substitute an improper reply. We 
didn't speak. Silence. I expected him to break it. But I thought he hoped 
the same.

My mind spread its wings again. Now I have a friend here in Budapest. "We 
lack the thing that glues us together." I remembered this remark on his 
lover of a friend in Australia. What's the essential bond between friends? 
Sometimes it's too easy to find a friend, in a chat room or via e-mail, by 
some exchanging of hello or a naughty joke. But that's not what was between 
us. Fate perhaps was the unseen power that pushed us together. An excuse 
again. And sometimes it's just too easy to lose one. Some never write again, 
some turn away and vanish. I didn't know when it would come to an end. It 
would come to an end; I was sure of that, sooner or later. It made my heart 
hurt. But was a friendship better than the other kind of relationship? One 
hour of right-down ardor perhaps worth more than a dull living on? I walked 
forward and felt I took one step backward. Best friends would usually not be 
lovers. Why is this step is so hard? The fear of ruininga whole thing stops 
us from making further advances. I was now facing the same dilemma. How long 
should I wait until I finally developed into something different? But it was 
fine just keeping everything running the same.

I was interrupted by a loud noise coming from one side, somewhere in Magyar 
Utca. I turned my head and saw the flashing neon light: "Action Bar". 
Dance music was bouncing inside the door. I could see the people. Some 
hustlers were leaning to the entrance, gazing at people in and out, 
viciously. The light inside was pink. Interesting color. There were mainly 
young people, in various clothes. Every pair of eyes were eagerly asking, 
"Do you want to make love with me?"... just like a snack bar. Give me a 
taste, then it is finished. Nothing needs to be digested but just swallowed. 
I was wondering why people have to force themselves to be 'different' from 
everything.

This world is so hard to understand; I finally draw a conclusion.

We walked on and occasionally 'knocked' into each other. Neither knew where 
to go; we just lingered along the road, like we sometimes linger on the road 
of life.

At the corner of the street, an old gypsy woman sat in a tent. Her colorful 
clothes were very special; a clear signal of her identification, but 
manufactured in a rough way. Her face was engraved with wrinkles, easily 
leading people to the frightening fantasy of witches living in the deep 
forest. On a clipboard in front of the tent were written some words, 
including a wry line of awful English. Mysterious power and great prophet or 
something like that. Her eyes were hollowed and glazed. I didn't dare to 
look directly at her. This weathered figure let me feel some uncertain 
despair.

I slowed down my pace and Zoltan too. "En Latok! En Latok!" She suddenly 
raised her body and voice, shouting. I felt like I was being attacked. It 
was clear that she was saying this to me. But what does it actually mean? 
Was it just huckstering, to lure a passing-by tourist? Or did it mean 
something serious? Perhaps she saw some terrible things. I naturally made 
this hypothesis.

"What did she say?" I asked Zoltan curiously.

"She said 'I see! I see!'" He whispered and glanced at the old lady. "Madam 
Vision, she is a famous fortuneteller here."

"Really? What did she see then?" I eagerly asked.

"How can I know? I am not fortuneteller." He laughed.

"En latok!" She said for a third time with a lower voice, hoarse.

In fact I never believed in fate, or fortune or its other names. It was only 
a fabricated tale made by man himself to be resorted to and appeased when he 
hurt unreasonably. We made it in the way we made God. But sometimes it was 
inevitable that people became addicted to the dream involuntarily although 
they knew it was just a dream.

"Why not have a try?" Zoltan asked. He seemed rather interested in what she 
would say.

"Okay," I replied willingly. I wouldn't refuse it for my own curiosity and 
his. "But...I didn't think she would understand English."

"It doesn't matter," he said. "I can translate for you." He clasped my hands 
happily and led me to the front of the old woman, like some old friends on 
their way to a new horror film.

He exchanged some words with the gypsy. They were a controversial people. 
Coming from some where in ancient India and wandering in the land of Europe 
from century to century. God gave them the ability to see the future but 
didn't give them a bright one. She might have been a beauty in her early 
time, like all Gypsy young fairies. But now... time's hand would be on me 
some day... it would be an annoying day, in such a world where people 
preferred face to soul.

Zoltan made a gesture and asked me to get closer. I walked slowly and found 
a chair on which to sit. She lifted her thin hands and touched me. I felt 
the roughness of her palm. A straight contact, like an electric shock. She 
murmured something while her hands moved across my face.

"What did she say?" I asked Zoltan. I felt a little embarrassed to be 
touched by an old stranger.

"Sh..." he whispered. "Wait."

She finally stopped but stared at Zoltan up and down carefully before she 
spoke.

She talked slowly with unassailable authority. Zoltan listened to her 
quietly.

"What was she talking about?" I asked again.

"She said, um...you come from a vast land..."

Australia is quite large, that's right, and it didn't surprise me much.

"...which is a desert in your mind. What does it mean?" He was a bit 
confused. Indifferent people around me were grains of sand to me without an 
oasis of love to quench my thirst. "Continue!" I urged him to go on.

"You're looking for something...something you missed through all the nights. 
You passed it by many times and bitter regret stiffened your heart..." he 
paused. "Um...sweet things were more bitter in memory...I saw your past of 
pain and loss...you kept searching for someone who can bring you away from 
the isolated island of solitude, your angels in guise, and your labor would 
be totally in vain.... It was impossible, you already knew it but you 
refused to admit.... Wines of emotion would ease you for a while but not 
forever, only a while to prepare your heart for more pain.... Remember 
this..."

I hated metaphor. Perhaps she was too old to foresee the right thing. 
"Tantalus!" she shouted at me while we were about to leave, sending another 
blow to my heart.

"Never mind... you know... sometimes they make mistakes." Zoltan said.

"I know... I know... " I replied. But frankly, it cast a cloud over my 
heart. I didn't want Zoltan to be bothered with such nonsensical things 
though.

We then continued our wandering in the cobweb of streets in Budapest until 
we walked back to where I parked the car.

"It's eleven o'clock now... er... I can take you home?" I said.

"Okay, thanks." He sounded a little tired.

Although it was hard to drive into the dark and narrow street, we soon 
arrived.

"So... goodbye." I said. "Oh... I nearly forgot. I should pay you..."

He interrupted. "Would you like to have something to drink?"

I replied at once: "Yes... of course."

"Then... let's go upstairs." He got out of the car and I soon followed him.

He opened the door and put a finger in front of his mouth. "Be quiet, my 
sister is sleeping."

"All right." I walked stealthily behind him into his room.

"Sorry... there's no sofa in my room. You can sit on my bed...." He turned 
the light on and pointed to a bed under the window.

I sat on his bed and looked around. It was a small bedroom. There was not 
much furniture on the bare wooden floor. The naked wall seemed to be white 
with a same strange color of the ceiling. I don't know whether it was a 
typical structure of apartment left by the communism era. It could be 
described as a cozy place, but not as bad as I imaged.

"What about a cup of coffee?" he asked.

"Oh... okay. That would be fine," I replied.

"You can see the Danube from here,"; he saw I was looking around.

"Really?" It made me a bit excited to find a room with view here, far from 
the hotel. I looked out of the window. It lay there, reflecting mellow color 
of moonlight, like a treasure that hasn't been discovered in an unknown 
place. It was not like the Seine, whose name was the symbol of enthusiastic 
erotic stories and which likens a profligate and beautiful woman. The Danube 
was on the opposite side, calm and noble with pure innocence, even in such a 
dirty environment and so unharmonious.

He sat beside me and offered me a cup of coffee. I pretended to happen to 
meet his eyes and I just stared into this entrance of the amazing demesne of 
the soul. I couldn't say what I found in his eyes. It was just a feeling, 
and an impulse.

He slowly put the cup away on a small table beside his bed and reached out 
for my hands. My hands were trembling and the cups were creaking. He took 
the cups from my hands then held them on his chest. He leaned forwards and 
kissed me on my lips. Stimulation was sent directly into my nerve center and 
spread to the whole body, urging it to react.

"You don't have to do this..." I let the words flow out of my mouth.

"No... I want to." He kissed me again. A kiss worth more than a thousand 
words. Those two gentle and soft lips were teasing me until I caught them 
with mine. I felt his hands were around me. And I held him tightly in my 
embrace too. The cold jacket had already dropped upon the floor. I hesitated 
and pulled his shirt up. He moved back to allow the cloth to slip from his 
trousers. The moment was even more exciting than the first time I saw his 
naked chest. I touched two rose-bud-like nipples with the tips of my fingers 
to let my most sensitive nerve have a most delicate contact with his 
marvelous flesh. His skin was smooth and white, the color favored by the 
cold and gray sky in the Northern Hemisphere, not like a suntanned Aussie. 
"Exotic" was the absolutely proper word. I was enjoying the time, no reason 
to hurry, savoring the special fragrance, the triple pleasure of aroma, of 
vision and of scent. I felt as if his radiant bodily heat was wrapping me. 
And I saw it was quivering slightly with the draft gliding through the 
narrow gap of the window frame. It was not very warm in the little bedroom, 
but the cold just couldn't put off the fire burning brighter and brighter in 
my heart. I took off my clothes one by one, slowly, not because of the chill 
but because my eyes didn't want to move away from his for even a second. 
Finally I did away with my coat, sweater and shirt that restrained and 
trapped me. He clung to me elegantly, right elegantly. There wouldn't be any 
other movement that could be so exquisite and sexy as well. I felt his body 
rub my skin. It was a bit cold at first, but we cuddled each other with 
fervor, and got warm. His head was on my shoulder. His hair made me itch and 
his lips were licking my ear. I closed my eyes; I let my imagination fly 
wildly to the fantastic point at its top speed. I turned my head and kissed 
him furiously, his hair, his eyes, his cheeks then lips. His hands was 
moving up and down, massaging my arms and chest. My body relaxed with his 
caressing and at once tensed up again when his versatile hands played with 
those hypersensitive parts. I was afraid that the orgasm would come too soon 
because I was gradually losing my resistance power (but I was glad to 
destroy the final defense).

"Do you like it?" he asked with a charming voice.

"Why ask? You're professional." I lifted my body and stood in front of him, 
viewing and admiring this spectacular beauty. He looked up and his hands 
moved to my waist. My body was shaking with excitement when the jeans slid 
down to my knees. I stepped out of them and lowered the underwear. I leaned 
forward and pressed him onto the bed. He let out a sigh, and rested his 
hands on my shoulders. I took off his jeans with my unskilled hands. He wore 
white briefs. I thought I must have a fetish for white briefs. White is an 
amazing color, like a blank planet waiting to be painted on, simple and 
pure. I let my hands go under the brief and moved my palm to and fro on his 
crotch. It was easy to get it away, but too soon a time was worth 
regretting. He pulled down the last piece of clothing from my body. Now were 
both naked, and equal in my mind. Nothing to remind us of any difference 
that might part us.

"How old are you?" I suddenly thought of this problem.

"Is that important?" It was not a suitable question. He replied wonderingly.

"No, just curious." I was about to cast it off my mind and make space for 
his sweet body.

"Well...18." He was busy 'working' on my body.

"Hmmm...I am 19." I said to myself and put my hands on the altar between his 
thighs. My fingers were cruising on the ocean of miracles, which I would 
like to compare to the Caribbean, for its heat was like a sunshiny day. And 
a storm was brewing inside my body. I moaned and kneeled on the floor. It 
was right before my eyes, throbbing with the rhythm of my heart. I couldn't 
wait to swallow it; perhaps "swallow" is a vulgar word but no other could 
describe my hunger. It filled my mouth. I ran my tongue around it, carefully 
so as not to let a place untouched and unmoistened. It was flicking the 
inside of my mouth and soon it paused its vibration. It reached that point 
and beyond. I thought it must be a feeling like descending from the high sky 
to the ground; the loss of gravity that bound you on the ground added to the 
extra pleasure. All the enormous energy released in a second or so. His 
chest heaved with every quickened breath, his eyes half closed; I even saw 
some small droplets of sweat on his forehead. His body turned red. A patch 
of red color just like a red cloud during the sunset covered his chest. He 
smiled; I knew it must be a great moment. I rose to kiss him but he gently 
pushed me back and put his legs around my shoulders. His eyes were 
persuading me. I moved forward without hesitation. We were connected 
together through this link. The organ had made us into oneness. I was 
floating in a visional space. And then it came to an end. Semen spewed with 
all my strength deep into him. Then I collapsed on him...

"It was great..." I spoke softly.

"Yes... I never experience this kind of..."

"Lovemaking." I added. lovemaking is different from sexual intercourse.

Lying there for about half an hour or longer, he asked: "Ummm... I am 
sorry... you will have to go... you know I never bring people home..."

"Well... I understand... but when can I see you again?" I asked.

"I don't know... whenever you like... you know where to find me."

I picked up my clothes and redressed. We went down and kissed goodbye. I was 
about to enter the car. All at once, I felt my head knocked by something 
hard. I fell down to the ground before I could turn my head. I heard several 
people, three or four. And I heard Zoltan talking to them... it was his 
voice but I didn't know what he is talking about.... It was so dark that I 
could not see, could not breathe, and could not feel. I must at that moment 
have lost my consciousness... for I remember no further details.