Dry Reference

I always get the shakes before a drop.

It was as if no one had heard.

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins.

Vaughan died yesterday in his last car-crash.

‘What’s it going to be then, eh?’ There was me, that is Alex, and my three droogs, that is Pete, Georgie, and Dim, Dim being really dim, and we sat in the Korova Milkbar making up our rassoodocks what to do with the evening, a flip dark chill winter bastard though dry.

Eyes mark the shape of the city.

I grew up very much alone, and as far back as I recall I was frightened of anything sexual.

I was distraught: an urgent journey awaited me; I had to visit a gravely ill patient in a village ten miles away; a thick blizzard filled the distance that separated us; I had a trap, a light one with large wheels that was perfect for our country roads; I stood in the courtyard, wrapped in furs, holding my bag of instruments, all ready to go, but the horse was missing—-no horse.

Once a guy stood all day shaking bugs from his hair.

I can feel the heat closing in, feel them out there making their moves, setting up their devil doll stool pigeons, crooning over my spoon and dropper I throw away in Washington Square Station, vault a turnstile and two flights down the iron stairs, catch an uptown A train.

The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel.

As Gregor Samsa awoke from unsettling dreams one morning, he found himself transformed in his bed into a monstrous vermin.

Even Camilla had enjoyed masquerades, of the safe sort where the mask may be dropped at that critical moment it presumes itself as reality.