eight o'clock in the evening
I suffer from nightmare , and I can not find words to tell you how terrible are the visions one sees at dawn . It is not so much that one sees unpleasant and ugly things -- life is not always pretty or agreeable , that we know -- but when one lies between sleeping and waking , life itself is shown in mean aspects , and it is whispered that one has been duped till now ; that now , and for the first time , one knows the truth . You remember how the wind wails about the hilltop on which I live . The wailing of wind has something to do with my condition of mind ; one can not sit from eight o'clock in the evening till twelve at night staring at the lamp , hearing the wind , and remain perfectly sane . ` But why am I writing about myself ? I want to escape from myself , and your letters enable me to do so . The names of the cities you are going to visit transport me in imagination , and last night I sat a long while wondering why I could not summon courage to go abroad .