And another enters, and he also is myself.

Then more and more, till the room is thronged with faces, and the stair-way beyond, and all the silent house.

Some of the faces are old and others young, and some are fair and smile at me, and many are foul and leer at me.

And every face is my own face, but no two of them are alike.
I do not know why the sight of myself should alarm me so, but I rush from the house in terror, and the faces follow me; and I run faster and faster, but I know that I shall never leave them behind me.
* * * * * As a rule one is the hero of one's own dreams, but at times I have dreamt a dream entirely in the third person--a dream with the incidents of which I have had no connection whatever, except as an unseen and impotent spectator.

One of these I have often thought about since, wondering if it could not be worked up into a story.