I like the unreality of your mind; the whole thing is very splendid and voluptuous and absurd.
it is strange how the dead leap out on us at street corners, or in dreams
Thinking is my fighting.
How can I express the darkness?
Only longing can fill with more of itself.
Her life-that was the only chance she had-the short season between two silences.
She felt... how life, from being made up of little separate incidents which one lived one by one, became curled and whole like a wave which bore one up with it and threw one down with it, there, with a dash on the beach.
Listening (had there been any one to listen) from the upper rooms of the empty house only gigantic chaos streaked with lightning could have been heard tumbling and tossing, as the winds and waves disported themselves like the amorphous bulks of leviathans whose brows are pierced by no light of reason, and mounted one on top of another, and lunged and plunged in the darkness or the daylight (for night and day, month and year ran shapelessly together) in idiot games, until it seemed as if the universe were battling and tumbling, in brute confusion and wanton lust aimlessly by itself.
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