Only by the beating of his heart Max could judge that Chronos had not left his chariot.

His body was aching ever more from the unnatural position in which it lay, and the constant light and silence were growing ever more tormenting.

How happy are they for whom night exists, near whom people are shouting, making noise, beating drums; who may sit on a chair, with their feet hanging down, or lie with their feet outstretched, placing the head in a corner and covering it with the hands in order to create the illusion of darkness.
Max made an effort to recall and to picture to himself what there is in life; human faces, voices, the stars....

He knew that his eyes would never in life see that again.

He knew it, and yet he lived.