"I exist. It’s sweet, so sweet, so slow. And light: you’d think it floated all by itself. It stirs. It brushes by me, melts and vanishes. Gently, gently. There is bubbling water in my mouth. I swallow. It slides down my throat, it caresses me - and now it comes up again into my mouth. For ever shall I have a little pool of whitish water in my mouth - lying low - grazing my tongue. And this pool is still me. And the tongue. And the throat is me."
- Nausea, Jean-Paul Sartre
(Source: baudelaireflaneur, via fridasexual)