A good mixture of nothing and everything is eating up my head alive.
But even so, every now and then I would feel a violent stab of loneliness. The very water I drink, the very air I breathe, would feel like long, sharp needles. The pages of a books in my hands would take on the threatening metallic gleam of razor blades. I could hear the roots of loneliness creeping through me when the world was hushed at four o’clock in the morning.
― Haruki Murakami, from The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle (Vintage, 1997)
I’m full of poetry now. Rot and poetry. Rotten poetry.
You know what else is great in bed? Books.