Vladimir Nabokov. Batir de alas
Can't go on like this, I'll go crazy. No future, just a black wall. There's nothing left.
He had the impression that the paper streamers were slithering down his face, rustling and ripping into narrow shreds. And the Japanese lanterns flowed with colored undulations in the parquet. He was dancing, advancing.
If I could just unclench her, flip her open.... And then...
And death seemed to him like a gliding dream, a fluffy fall. No thoughts, no palpitations, no aches.
The lunar ribs on the ceiling had imperceptibly