L'enfer, c'est les autres. - Jean-Paul Sartre

We move our eyelids up and down. Blinking, we call it. It's like a small black
shutter that clicks down and makes a break. Everything goes black; one's eyes are moistened.
You can't imagine how restful, refreshing, it is. Four thousand little rests per hour. Four thousand
little respites.

Night is falling: at dusk, you must have good eyesight to be able to tell the Good Lord from the Devil.

In the distance.
Above my head; above my head; and this instant which I cannot leave, which locks me in and
limits me on every side, this instant I am made of will be no more than a confused dream.