Rudolf, a peculiar feeling has come over me.
Three days ago, a strange sort of sensation, not unpleasant, took possession of my limbs, and when I awoke from my sleep in the night it was with a odd sort of joy, I know not how to express it, as if my soul had quitted me.

I take it as an omen of my death.

Do not gainsay me, I beg.

I am not afraid of death; I long for it.

At such times a quick current of air brushes past my ear, as if some one were about to fly away from close beside me.