For Vera
All happy families are more or less dissimilar; all unhappy ones are more or less alike.
Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth.
I was the shadow of the waxwing slain
By the false azure of the windowpane
