For we die every day; oblivion thrives Not on dry thighbones but on blood-ripe lives, And our best yesterdays are now foul piles Of crumpled names, p… - Vladimir Nabokov

For we die every day; oblivion thrives

Down you go, but all the while you feel suspended and buoyed as you somersault in slow motion like a somnolent tumbler pigeon, and sprawl supine on the eiderdown of the air, or lazily turn to embrace your pillow, enjoying every last instant of soft, deep, death-padded life, with the earth’s green see-saw now above, now below, and the voluptuous crucifixion, as you stretch yourself in the growing rush, in the nearing swish, and then your loved body’s obliteration in the Lap of the Lord.

Lolita: Oh my Carmen, my little Carmen…
Humbert: Charmin’ Carmen. Started garglin’
Lolita: I remember those sultry nights
Humbert: Those pre-raphaelites
Lolita: No, come on. And the stars and the cars and the bars and the barmen.
Humbert: And the bars that sparkled and the cars that parkled…And the curs that barkled and the birds that larkled.
Lolita: And oh my charmin, our dreadful fights
Humbert: Such dreadful blights
Lolita: And the something town where arm in…arm, we went, and our final row, and the gun I killed you with, o my Carmen…the gun I am holding now

There is nothing louder than an American hotel; and, mind you, this was supposed to be a quiet, cozy, old-fashioned, homey place - 'gracious living' and all that stuff.