It is suicide to be abroad. But what it is to be at home, ... what it is to be at home? A lingering dissolution. - Samuel Beckett

I am still alive then. That may come in useful.

I lay down across her with my face in her breasts and my hand on her. We lay there without moving. But under us all moved, and moved us, gently, up and down, and from side to side.

Not to want to say, not to know what you want to say, not to be able to say what you think you want to say, and never to stop saying, or hardly ever, that is the thing to keep in mind, even in the heat of composition.