These are the days, W. says. This is the reckoning. Of what though? He's unsure. There must be some kind of accounting, he knows that. Someone must be keeping score, but who?
Sometimes he thinks a great blow will strike down from the sky. It's preparing itself there, he thinks: some blot of lightning, some storm after which it will all have become clear. He watches from the train window when he commutes to work. It is there, he knows, behind the windowless wall of his office.
The judgement: when will it strike down?, W. wonders. When will it come?
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