Where are we now? Are we in a room with many doors? There is a woman in black mourning opening door after door, she is the one who opens the doors: she doesn't know anything but her dead love, she doesn't know what she is doing here, how she got here, how she will leave here: all she knows is the sadness in her breast, the anguish she feels for her dead love--and so she opens door after door. There are many terrors behind the doors, there is much madness behind the doors; and so she screams and wails for her dead love--he is all and everything, and the sadness in her breast is all and everything. And so she wanders forever opening doors--she never suspects that she is dead, and she will never know anything but this room, these doors.