At first he dreamed vaguely, confusedly; broken
fragments of images and fancies followed each
other, fleeting and incoherent, but all filled with
the same dim sense of struggle and pain, the same
shadow of indefinable dread. Presently he began
to dream of sleeplessness; the old, frightful, familiar
dream that had been a terror to him for
years. And even as he dreamed he recognized
that he had been through it all before.
He was wandering about in a great empty place,
trying to find some quiet spot where he could lie
down and sleep. Everywhere there were people,
walking up and down; talking, laughing, shouting;
praying, ringing bells, and clashing metal instruments
together. Sometimes he would get away
to a little distance from the noise, and would lie
down, now on the grass, now on a wooden bench,
now on some slab of stone. He would shut his
eyes and cover them with both hands to keep out
the light; and would say to himself: "Now I
will get to sleep." Then the crowds would come
sweeping up to him, shouting, yelling, calling him
by name, begging him: "Wake up! Wake up,
quick; we want you!"
Again: he was in a great palace, full of gorgeous
rooms, with beds and couches and low soft
lounges.
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