"All for the best, you know--all for the best, we're all of us sure of
that. Love doesn't last--doesn't last--doesn't last--as good fish in
the sea as ever were caught out of it--nobody's heart could break at
twenty-five. You think you're happy and proud--you think you're lovers and
friends--but that doesn't last, doesn't last, doesn't last--none of it
lasts at all."
If he only weren't so _tired_ he could do something. But instead he feels
only as a man feels who has been drinking all day in the instant before
complete intoxication--his body is as distinct from him as if it
were walking behind him with his shadow--all the colors he sees seem
exaggeratedly dull or brilliant, he has little sense of distance, the next
street corner may be a block or a mile away, it is all the same, his feet
will take him there, his feet that keep going mechanically, one after the
other, one after the other, as if they marched to a clock. There is
no feeling in him that stays long enough to be called by any definite
word--there is only a streaming parade of sensations like blind men running
through mist, shapes that come out of fog and sink back to it, without
sight, without number, without name, with only continual hurry of feet to
tell of their presence.
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