That night I drank deeply and long of my favourite nectar. Glass after glass I prepared, and drained each one off with insatiable and ever-increasing apetite.

I drank till the solid walls of my own room, when I at last found myself there, appeared to me like transparent glass, shot throughout with emerald flame, surrounded on all sides by phantoms.

Beautiful, hideous, angelic, devilish.

I reeled to my couch in a sort of waking swoon, conscious of strange sounds everywhere. Like the clanging of brazen bells, and the silver fanfaranade of the trumpets of war, conscious too of a similar double sensation - namely, as though myself were divided into two persons, who opposed eachother in deadly combat, in which neither could possibly obtain even the merest shadow-victory.

And here I am... An absintheur in the city of absinthe.
And glory is neither for me, nor for thee, Paris.
And here I am... thou frivilous, lovely, godless, lascivious dominion of sin.
And here I am... godless.

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