I think I have seen from afar something of the final prison of all, the innermost cell of the debtor of the universe . . . It is the vast outside; the ghastly dark beyond the gates of the city of which God is the light–where the evil dogs go ranging, silent as the dark, for there is no sound any more than sight. The time of signs is over. Every sense has (had) its signs, and they were all misused: there is no sense, no sign more–nothing now by means of which to believe. The man wakes from the final struggle of death, in absolute loneliness–such a loneliness as in the most miserable moment of deserted childhood he never knew. Not a hint, not a shadow of anything outside his consciousness reaches him . . . Soon misery will beget on imagination a thousand shapes of woe, which he will not be able to rule, direct, or even distinguish from real presences.