is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle toward my hand? come, let me clutch thee: I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. art though not, fatal vision, sensible a dagger of the mind, a false creation proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? I see thee yet, in form as palpable as this which now I draw thou marshall'st me the way that I was going, and such an instrument I wish to use.