He thought of nothing. Some thoughts or fragments of thoughts, some images without order or coherence floated before his mind — faces of people he had seen in his childhood or met somewhere once, whom he would never have recalled, the belfry of the church at V., the billiard table in a restaurant and some officers playing billiards, the smell of cigars in some underground tobacco shop, a tavern room, a back staircase quite dark, all sloppy with dirty water and strewn with egg-shells, and the Sunday bells floating in from somewhere... The images followed one another, whirling like a hurricane.
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Raskolnikov's state of numbness, he is beginning to feel the weight of his crime. Almost in shock he lays on the couch and lets his mind wander
