Dear Jesus, do something. - Vladimir Nabokov

He broke my heart. You merely broke my life.

I wandered through various public rooms, glory below, gloom above: for the look of lust always is gloomy; lust is never quite sure — even when the velvety victim is locked up in one's dungeon — that some rival devil or influential god may still not abolish one's prepared triumph.

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.