"For the moment, the jazz is playing; there is no melody, just notes, a myriad of tiny tremors. The notes know no rest, an inflexible order gives birth to them then destroys them, without ever leaving them the chance to recuperate and exist for themselves.... I would like to hold them back, but I know that, if I succeeded in stopping one, there would only remain in my hand a corrupt and languishing sound. I must accept their death; I must even want that death: I know of few more bitter or intense impressions." 

- Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea (1938)

"Today, you're gonna be sick, so sick. You'll prop your forehead on the sink, say, 'Oh Christ, oh Jesus Christ, my head's gonna crack like a bank.' Tonight, you'll fall asleep in clothes so late. Like a candy bar wrapped up for lunch, that's all you'll get to taste. Poverty and spit, poverty and spit."

- X, "Nausea" (1980)

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