All good writing is like swimming underwater and holding your breath. - F. Scott Fitzgerald

I want to tell you about your heart — you've probably been neglecting your heart — and you don’t know.

A squalid phantasmagoria of breath

It was a grey day, that least fleshly of all weathers; a day of dreams and far hopes and clear visions. It was a day easily associated with those abstract truths and purities that dissolve in the sunshine or fade out in mocking laughter by the light of the moon. The trees and clouds were carved in classical severity; the sounds of the countryside had harmonized to a monotone, metallic as a trumpet, breathless as the Grecian urn.