Still rereading House of Leaves, my progress has been somewhat hindered by Hard Times, A Tale of two Cities, and Ovid's Metamorphoses.

I can imagine that my heart is pumping at an alarming rate. Not just that, but I can hear its muted, choking gulps; the convulsions that wrack it; and I feel the sensation of it tearing its sinuous self apart, raging against the bars of my ribcage, struggling to distend itself and be free of the bones.

It's past midnight now, and I feel rememberances of summer nights years and yesterdays ago. All brought back by that elusive scent.


"Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories..."