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Gilbert De Quincey: [narration] When the dreams of the dark, idle, monstrous phenomenae move forever forward... wild, barbarous, capricious into the great yawning darkness... to be fixed for centuries in secret rooms. De Quincey, the artist ?, De Quincey, the pagan priest, to be worshiped, to be sacrificed. What is a dream and what is reality? Sometimes a man's life can be a nightmare; other times, cannot a nightmare be life? And the voices that I heard, were they the voices of some strange imitation of men in some strange, writhing jungle of my imagination? Was this opium or was it reality? Was I dead? Or I was I only beginning to live?

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