The melacholy and the tenderness of mortal life; the passion and the pain;The claret tailight of that dwindling planeOff Hesperus; your gesture dismayOn running out of cigarettes; the way You smile at dogs; the trail of silver slimeSnails leave or flagstone; this good ink, this rhyme.This index card, this slender rubber bandWhich always forms, when dropped, an ampersand,Are found in Heaven by the newlydeadStored in its strongholds through the years.
-Vladimir Nabokov
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