Todo dia sopro e sopro nos teus lábios tentando uma respiração boca-a-boca que te traga à vida, mas nada te acordas, bela adormecida, estancada estais no torpor da matéria bruta.

Eu estive sepultado, mumificado, conservado nas catacumbas da linguagem; a esperar o sopro de graça que me devolvesse à vida.

Better, perhaps, to dress like a whore around the clock and thus achieve a fully integrated personality.

She felt all right. Her heart was like a drum hanging from piano wire in her chest, slowly, slowly beaten. Her hands and feet were numb, not with cold but with a sultry torpor. Thoughts...

How much more than necessary do we spend in sleep, forgetting that the sleeping fox catches no poultry, and that there will be sleeping enough in the grave, as Poor Richard says.