Vladimir Nabokov. Terror
On the fifth day, after a bad night, I took time out for a stroll. I wish the part of my story to which I am coming now could be set in italics; no, not even italics would do: I need some new, unique kind of type. Insomnia had left me with an exceptionally receptive void within my mind. My head seemed made of glass, and the slight cramp in my calves had also a vitreous character. As soon as I came out of the hotel— Yes, now I think I have found the right words. I hasten to write them down before they fade. When I came out on the street, I suddenly saw the