Even while writing his book, he had become painfully aware how little he knew his own planet while attempting to piece together another one from jagged bits filched from deranged brains.

Most of the dandelions had changed from suns to moons.

The lost glove is happy.

All my stories are webs of style and none seems at first blush to contain much kinetic matter.

And presently I was driving through the drizzle of the dying day, with the windshield wipers in full action but unable to cope with my tears.

I could also distinguish the glint of a special puddle (the one Krug had somehow perceived through the layer of his own life), an oblong puddle invariably acquiring the same form after every shower because of the constant spatulate shape of a depression in the ground. Possibly something of the kind may be said to occur in regard to the imprint we leave in the intimate texture of space. Twang. A good night for nothing.

My own ultraviolet darling. " Lolita