I see now that this has been a story of the West, after all — Tom and Gatsby, Daisy and Jordan and I, were all Westerners, and perhaps we possessed s… - F. Scott Fitzgerald

There was one of his lonelinesses coming, one of those times when he walked the streets or sat, aimless and depressed, biting a pencil at his desk. It was a self-absorption with no comfort, a demand for expression with no outlet, a sense of time rushing by, ceaselessly and wastefully - assuaged only by that conviction that there was nothing to waste, because all efforts and attainments were equally valueless.

In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars.

But Dick had come away for his soul's sake, and he began thinking about that. He had lost himself — he could not tell the hour when, or the day or the week, the month or the year.