[console me in my darkest hour]

He was in a troubled and obscured state of mind which was incomprehensible, from the sky to that yellow tram rumbling along the clear track of the Hohenzollerdamn (along which Yasha had once gone to his death), but gradually his annoyance with himself passed and with a kind of relief–as if the responsibility for his soul belonged not to him but to someone who knew what it all meant–he felt that all this skein of random thoughts, like everything else as well– the seams and sleaziness of the spring day, the ruffle of the air, the coarse, variously intercrossing threads of confused sounds–was but the reverse side of a magnificent fabric, on the front of which there gradually formed and became alive images invisible to him.
Vladimir Nabokov, The Gift

+ The Killers live from the Royal Albert Hall - Losing Touch