Sinclair, my dear fellow, the name of our god is Abraxas.
He is God and he is Satan; he has the light and the dark world in him.
Abraxas has no objection to urge against any of your ideas or against any of your dreams.
Never forget that. But he deserts you if you ever become blameless and normal.
He deserts you and seeks out another pot in order to cook his ideas therein.”
Of all my dreams, that dark love-dream recurred most frequently.
Often, often have I dreamed of it; often I stepped under the crest with the bird on it into our house, and wished to draw my mother to me,
but instead of her I found I was embracing the tall, manly, half-motherly woman,
of whom I was afraid, and yet to whom I was drawn by a most ardent desire.
And I could never relate this dream to my friend. I kept it back, although I had opened my heart to him on everything else.
It was my secret, my retreat, my refuge. When I was depressed, I used to beg Pistorius to play me the Passacaglia of old Buxtehude.
I sat in the dark church in the evening, engrossed in this singularly intimate music,
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