She stayed beside me until I slept waveringly brilliantly hooded in diaphanous scarlet and occasionally she left an imperative written in lipstick on my dusty windowpane. BE AMOROUS she exhorted one night and another night BE MYSTERIOUS Some nights later she scribbled WHEN YOU BEGIN TO THINK YOU LOSE THE POINT.

She sleeps. And now she wakes each day a little less. And each day takes less and less nourishment as if grudging the least moment of wakefulness for from the movement under her eyelids and the somnolent gestures of her hands and feet it seems as if her dreams grow more urgent and intense as if the life she lives in the closed world of dreams is now about to possess her utterly as if her small increasingly reluctant wakenings were an interpretation of some more vital existence so she is loath to spend even those necessary moments of wakefulness with us wakings strange as her sleepings. Her marvellous fate - a sleep more lifelike than the living a dream which consumes the world.