(..) A heavy summons lies like lead upon me and yet I would not sleep. Merciful powers, restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature gives way to in repose. Is this a dagger which I see before me? The handle toward my hand. Come, let me clutch thee. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feeling as to sight? Or art thou but a dagger of the mind? A false creation, proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain. Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going and such an instrument I was to use. (..)