A sense of security, of well-being, of summer warmth pervades my memory. That robust reality makes a ghost of the present. The mirror brims with brightness; a bumblebee has entered the room and bumps against the ceiling. Everything is as it should be, nothing will ever change, nobody will ever die.
Vladimir NabokovTime is rhythm: the insect rhythm of a warm humid night, brain ripple, breathing, the drum in my templeโthese are our faithful timekeepers; and reason corrects the feverish beat.
Vladimir Nabokov