..

What did my lover say, Mister mail man? Mister hot-shot know-it-all! Saunter over to me with that heavy gift bag. Tip toe over those feathered lone spires of green, to me! -Alas, alas. My blood boils with anticipation, reverberating spasms of ecstasy from cell to spine, from shingle to concrete, shaking the confines of my body -this silly, elastic skin. Nothing today, Ma'am, he says as he tips his awkward hat atop his dapper, sun-kissed face. Galloping past me, neighing almost in mockery, as he spindles his web throughout the neighborhood.

Excerpt from Lolita.

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 calender is getting confused. That must have been around August 15, 1947. Don't think I can't go on. Heart, head-everything. Lolita, Lolita, Lolita, Lolita, Lolita, Lolita, Lolita, Lolita, Lolita, Lolita. Repeat until the page is full, printer..

Dying, dying, Lolita Haze, of hate and remorse, I'm dying. And again my hairy fist I raise, and again I hear you crying.