You told him of your dreams as he was weighing you this morning, in order to determine the length of the rope that would kill you swiftly, without pulling your head off, or strangulating you slowly, while you jumped up and down, yelping and foaming at the mouth. You told him of your dreams, that is, of the same dream in ever greater clarity of detail, the same dream ever closer to the fatal moment when you would pull the lever and watch him drop through the hatch in the gallows’ platform. You told him and his bewildered assistant, who was checking the rope inch by inch, of the ancient Chinese poem about a man who dreamt one night that he was a butterfly, and who could not determine any more whether he was a man dreaming that he was a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming it was a man. You told him about the eagerness with which you awaited the final test of your life, the execution itself. And the executioner was man enough to admit to you that in his ever-recurring dream he was in your present position. That has given you comfort. You know that this is the reason why this intelligent man is slightly nervous now, during the last preparations, while his assistant performs his duties with exaggerated dignity, exposing his limitations and his intrinsic dullness. You are confident now that your test will be conclusive. Everything is set. Everything is moving at the right pace. Now you feel the eyes of the witnesses tickling your calm face. You see him reach for the lever, his face purple in color; you see him pull it slowly, and you see his heavy body follow your movement down, as he falls with a thump onto the floor of the platform like a sack of potatoes…