And now, having once loved, she will be slow to unlove again.

So many persons are not lodgeable in this village.

Lying on, in, under her, I pore with squinnying eyes on a mole on that browngold rivercolour riverripple skin with its smell of sun, or else a tiny unsqueezed comedo by the flat and splaying nose.

I: I think there may be something living in there. I think there may be something alive. Withnail: What d'you mean? A rat? I: It's possible. It's possible. Withnail: Then the fucker will rue the day!