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!

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.