…In the extremity of my unhappiness, I abused my pipe, and then all that you have spoken falls far below the truth, for in addition to the slavery and degradation the whole life becomes a waking horror. The dreams invade the day, and from enchanting, they turn horrible: they do so by some minute, subtle variation that appalls one’s mind. And the same happens to the colours—for I should have told you that my dreams were infinitely full of colour, and colour also invested the characters that I read or wrote, filling them with far greater significance, one that I could apprehend but could not name. Yet now these colours, by a quarter tone of difference, grew more and more sinister, threatening and evil. They terrified me. For instance, my window looked out on to a blank wall, and on the cracked plaster a little flicker of violet would grow and glow with such hellish significance that I cowered on the floor.