Her death would leave me scattered, talking to chairs and pillows. Don't let us die, I want to cry out to that fifth-century sky ablaze with mystery and spiral light. Let us both live forever, in sickness and health, feebleminded, doddering, toothless, liver-spotted, dim-sighted, hallucinating. Who decides these things? What is out there? Who are you?
Don DeLilloHe thinks he's happy but it's just a nerve cell in his brain that's getting too much stimulation or too little stimulation.
Don DeLillo