He imagined himself lying there, unable to sleep, thinking of his mother, separated from her by the unresponsive blankets tucked too tightly round him, feeling the ceaseless thumping of his heart in the silence of the night, the irrevocability of absence, the rigid stillness of repose, the agony of solitude and sleeplessness. If the room was a prison, the bed was a tomb.

Author   Marcel ProustTopics   Sleep Agony, Solitude, Emotional Isolation, Night Silence, Grief Presence, Mental Torture Copy Share on Share on Facebook Share on Pinterest Share on Twitter

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