Dream is a second life.

Never have I been able to pass without a shudder through those gates of ivory or of horn which divide us from the invisible world. The first moments of sleep are the image of death: a hazy torpor overcomes our thoughts, and it is impossible for us to determine the precise instant when the I in another form, resumes the creative work of existence. Little by little an obscure underground cavern grows lighter, and the pale, solemnly immobile figures that inhabit the realm of limbo emerge from shadows and darkness. Then the picture takes form, a new light illumines and sets in motion these odd apparitions:- the world of Spirits opens before us.