(...)

Sometimes, too, as Eve was created from a rib of Adam, a woman would be born during my sleep from some strain in the position of my thighs.

Conceived from pleasure I was on the point of consummating, she it was, I imagined, who offered me that pleasure.

My body, conscious that its own warmth was permeating hers, would strive to became one with her, and I would awake.

The rest of humanity seemed very remote in comparison with this woman whose company I had left but a moment ago; my cheek was still warm from her kiss, my body ached beneath the weight of hers.

If, as would sometimes happen, she had the features of some woman whom I had know in waking hours, I would abandon myself altogether to the sole quest of her, like people who set out on a journey to see with their eyes some city of their desire, and imagine that one can taste in reality what has charmed one’s fancy.

And then, gradually, the memory of her would dissolve and vanish, until I had forgotten the girl of my dream.

(...)

Proust.