" Now the voices and the sound of movement were gone, and the stream could be heard running quietly under its banks. The air was full of the scent of water and of flowers.

She walked, quiet, while the house began to reverberate: a band had started up. She walked beside the river while the music thudded, feeling herself as a heavy, impervious, insensitive lump that, like a planet doomed always to be dark on one side, had vision in front only, a myopic searchlight blind except for the tiny three-dimensional path open immediately before her eyes in which the outline of a tree, a rose, emerged then submerged in dark. She thought, with the dove’s voices of her solitude. Where? But where. How? Who? No, but where, where … Then silence and the birth of a repetition. Where? Here. Here?

Here, where else, you fool, you poor fool, where else has it been, ever…? "

― Doris Lessing