as though they were my own. During those days in the silent prison cell I did not, however, realize fully nor register definitely these impressions, these intangible movements of the soul, impossible to lay hold upon, these shadows of things not yet existing which glided before my eyes. But, when Verhaeren, aflame with the fires of new creation, was killed in the street, leaving after him the bitterness of the cruel injustice of Fate and of injury perpetrated by blind accident, then I remembered the vision of those black, hope-enshrouding clouds, veiling the pale dead face of the great poet, which started from my soul as a gruesome spectre and tortured me for days in my cell, where often for long, unbroken periods I heard nothing other than the monotonous cries of the guard:
"Take care! T-a-k-e c-a-r-e!"
At this time, when the prison walls separated me from life with all its noise and struggle, when I felt myself absolutely alone, I was surrounded by unknown, invisible beings rising up out of the unexplored recesses of my soul, who spoke with me, advising and instructing me. I realized then what extraordinary, invisible powers are lodged within the transient human body, what treasury might be obtained from these powers, were they not lulled to sleep by the opiate of modern life. I could call up the figures of all whom I knew with such vivid distinctness that they appeared before me and whispered to me in almost real voices. I felt the warmth of their bodies, I even heard their breathing and the sounds of their movements. It was a state strange and terrifying, but at the same time waking a thrill of bliss. I had the impression that I was in another world, in which my body and soul were changed, making of me a higher, more nearly perfect and non-terrestrial being.
