Dolores Haze. Or a surname rhyming with such. Lo in the morning. Lola later in the day. Dolly for the uninformed.

Lo.

Lee.

Tah.

The tongue, tripping down the palate, to the teeth, walking away from his kingdom by the sea.

Poor Humbert. He lacked the desire or the capacity to ever really understand. Anything. He wound his car, loaded down with the heavy, excessive baggage of his soul, through and around the canals of this old New World, through this great and wild expanse of wilderness, of savagery.

He explored and found nothing. Nothing at all. And he buried himself into the nothingness not altogether willingly but, instead, pushed on as if by inertia.

F = ma

The world is so full of things that we do not understand, nor have the time to figure out.

Poor Humbert.

But, even more, poor Dolores.

Pity, poor Dolores.

The world is rushing up to her now. Pressing forward, toward her now. Full of things she will never understand.

Try to keep her in mind from time to time (dark on light or light on dark).

Winston still sits in his corner, peering into his empty glass, thinking of Julia and not thinking of her, from moment to moment.

“All you care about is yourself,” she said. And he agreed. True of them both. Memories are fleeting now and the memories themselves are only things to be mistrusted. Truth, after all, is relative.

2 + 2 =

But, love? Ah, love. Love is something different. What he and Julia felt for one another. It was not love. He understands that now. He remembers her, even now, dark and bright. Black and red. She is wandering through the streets, picking her way through the party members, severed from Winston forever. And he from her.

What do we know of love, anyway? Only that we all love Big Brother, now. Finally.

Available in both light and dark. Naturally.

Victory gin never tasted so good.

Appreciate it.