I—my heart—a gaping heart, enthroned in a radiance of blood. It is mine, it is ours. The heart—that wound which we have. I have compassion on myself.
I see again the rainy shore that I saw before time was, before earth's drama was unfolded; and the woman on the sands. She moans and weeps, among the pictures which the clouds of mortality offer and withdraw, amid that which weaves the rain. She speaks so low that I feel it is to me she speaks. She is one with me. Love—it comes back to me. Love is an unhappy man and unhappy woman.
I awake—uttering the feeble cry of the babe new-born.
All grows pale, and paler. The whiteness I foresaw through the whirlwinds and clamors—it is here. An odor of ether recalls to me the memory of an awful memory, but shapeless. A white room, white walls, and white-robed women who bend over me.
In a voice confused and hesitant, I say:
"I've had a dream, an absurd dream."
My hand goes to my eyes to drive it away.
"You struggled while you were delirious—especially when you thought you were falling," says a calm voice to me, a sedate and familiar voice, which knows me without my knowing the voice.
"Yes," I say!