A dizziness seizes me as I strive to look downward.
I have a presentiment of something formless, limitless. A vague awe and terror fill me. I tremble and draw back but an alien hand constrains me.
We wander along a moonlit street. To the right and left extend pallid plains from which dark cypress trees arise, straight as candles.
It is all wide and desolate like those halls.
In the far distance arise sounds like half smothered cries of the dying, but they grow to music.
Shrill jubilation echoes between the sounds and it too grows to music.
But this music is none other than the roaring of the storm which lashes us on when we dare to faint.
And we wander, wander … days, weeks, months. Who knows how long?
Night and day are alike. We do not rest; nor speak.
The road is far behind us. We wander upon trackless wastes.