and placing my few pictures before me, I surrendered myself up with passionate fervor to my dreams.
My dreams came back at once, the dream of front door and crest, of mother and the strange woman,
and I saw the features of the woman so very clearly that I began to draw her picture the same evening.
In a few days this drawing was finished, painted in as if unconsciously in dreamy quarter-of-an-hour periods.
In the evening I hung it on the wall, put the reading lamp in front of it,
and stood before it as before a spirit with whom I had to fight until victory should be decided one way or the other.
It was a face similar to the former, resembling my friend Demian, in certain traits even resembling myself.
One eye stood perceptibly higher than the other, the look passed over me, sunk in a staring gaze, full of destiny.
I stood before it. Such was my inward exertion that I became cold to the marrow.
I questioned the picture, I abused it, I caressed it, I prayed to it.
I called it mother, I called it beloved, called it strumpet and whore, called it Abraxas.
Meanwhile words of Pistorius crossed my mind, or of Demian?
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