For the last time, then, for the last time I open my eyes to this world. Alas, they shall not see the sun again, for today it is hidden behind a veil of mist. Now, Nature, mourn your son, your friend, your lover who nears his end. Lotte, this is a unique sensation, and yet it resembles a twilight dream, when one says to oneself: ‘This is the last morning. The last!’ Lotte, these words mean nothing to me. Am I not standing here alive, in the possession of all my faculties, and yet tomorrow I shall lie prostrate and motionless on the ground. To die! What does that mean? Look, we are dreaming when we speak of death. I have seen many people die; but so limited is the human mind that it has no clear conception of the beginning and the end of our existence. At this moment I am still mine, yours! yours, my beloved! And the next moment—separated, divorced from you, perhaps forever? —No, Lotte, no! How can I not be? How can you not be? We are after all. —Not be! What does that mean? It is only a word, a mere sound, which stirs nothing in me. —Dead, Lotte! thrown into the cold ground, so narrow, so dark! —I once had a friend who meant everything to me in my awkward youth; she died, and I followed the bier and stood beside her grave when they lowered the coffin, and the ropes that held it whirred as they were loosened and jerked up again; and then the first shovelful of earth fell with a thud, and the fearful chest gave back a hollow sound, more muffled every time, until it was completely covered with earth. I fell to the ground beside the grave—shocked, shaken, frightened, heartbroken; but I did not know what had happened to me—what will happen to me. —Death! The grave! I do not understand these words.