This daily headache in the opaque air of this tombal jail is disturbing, but I must persevere. Have written more than a hundred pages and not got anywhere yet. My calendar is getting confused. That must have been around August 15, 1947. Don't think I can go on. Heart, head - everything. Lolita, Lolita, Lolita, Lolita, Lolita, Lolita, Lolita, Lolita.
Lolita, Lolita, Lolita. Lo please get out I'm not YOU.
~From suns to moons, the gin and Lolita were dancing in me~
And she was mine, she was mine, the key was in my fist, my fist was in my pocket, she was mine.
A forest in Arkansas, her brown shoulder, [..] its beautiful transparent poison which I sucked till I was gorged on her spicy blood.
Beauty's Sleep.
'Blue!' she exclaimed. 'Violet blue. What are they made of?'
'Summer skies', I said, 'and plums and figs, and the grape-blood of emperors.'
You see, she had absolutely nowhere else to go.
-Nabokov.
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