And this morning I recounted to my Lord last night’s dream, though of course this dream was one born of the turmoil of the day to come, in which the events that occur will be numerous and unending, and so there should to this vision be ascribed no special meaning, for it has not derived its power from any meditation here in these halls of solitude. Now to him I said, “My dear Lord, last night as you slept, I dreamt. And in this dream the snows outside the Palace of my youth gathered in drifts deeper than any I had ever seen. And inside, the ice that blossomed on the stone of the walls spread upwards, brick by brick, as if pursuing me as I climbed the spiral curve of steps towards the final floor, from which my mother had always forbidden me to enter. And though I neared the top, the ice caught me, and spread past me faster than I could run, so that now the stairs were as slippery as freshly washed bone. And though I knew I should be careful, for there was nothing to gain by rushing, and much to lose, the final floor was so close at hand I could not help but hurry. And as I approached the summit, and saw before me the doors open in welcome, I slipped and fell, and tumbled back into the dark, down to wherever it was I had begun.”