Å være sammen er å være tilstrekkelig langt borte fra alt annet.
Gunnar Ardelius (2006) Jag behöver dig mer än jag älskar dig och jag älskar dig så himla mycket

The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy has this to say on the subject of flying

There is an art, it says, or rather, a knack to flying.
The knack lies in learning how to throw yourself at the ground and
miss.
Pick a nice day, it suggests, and try it.
The first part is easy.
All it requires is simply the ability to throw yourself forward with
all your weight, and the willingness not to mind that it's going to hurt.
That is, it's going to hurt if you fail to miss the ground.
Most people fail to miss the ground, and if they are really trying
properly, the likelihood is that they will fail to miss it fairly hard.
Clearly, it is this second part, the missing, which presents the
difficulties.
One problem is that you have to miss the ground accidentally. It's no
good to deliberately intend to miss the ground because you won't. You
have to have your attention suddenly distracted by something else when
you're halfway there, so that you are no longer thinking about falling, or
about the ground, or about how much it's going to hurt if you fail to miss
it.
It is notoriously difficult to prise your attention away from these
three things during the split second you have at your disposal. Hence most
people's failure, and their eventual disillusionment with this exhilarating
and spectacular sport.
If, however, you are lucky enough to have your attention momentarily
distracted at the crucial moment by, say, a gorgeous pair of legs (tentacles,
pseudopodia, according to phyllum and/or personal inclination) or a bomb
going off in your vicinity, or by suddenly spotting an extremely rare species
of beetle crawling along a nearby twig, then in your astonishment you will
miss the ground completely and remain bobbing just a few inches above it in
what might seem to be a slightly foolish manner.
This is a moment for superb and delicate concentration.
Bob and float, float and bob.
Ignore all consideration of your own weight and simply let yourself
waft higher.
Do not listen to what anybody says to you at this point because they are
unlikely to say anything helpful.
They are most likely to say something along the lines of, "Good Heavens,
you can't possibly be flying!"
It is vitally important not to believe them or they will suddenly be right.
Waft higher and higher.
Try a few swoops, gentle ones at first, then drift above the treetops
breathing regularly.
DO NOT WAVE AT ANYBODY.
When you have done this a few times you will find the moment of
distraction rapidly becomes easier and easier to achieve.
You will then learn all sorts of things about how to control your flight,
your speed, your manoeuvrability, and the trick usually lies in not thinking
too hard about whatever you want to do, but just allowing it to happen as if
it was going to anyway.
You will also learn about how to land properly, which is something you
will almost certainly cock up, and cock up badly, on your first attempt.
There are private flying clubs you can join which help you achieve the
all-important moment of distraction. They hire people with suprising bodies
or opinions to leap out from behind bushes and exhibit and/or explain them
at the critical moments. Few genuine hitch-hikers will be able to afford to
join these clubs, but some may be able to get temporary employment at them.

Fersk sorg har skarpe kanter, den kapper over nervetråder, kobler ut virkeligheten -
Christopher Moore (2006) A dirty job

Trefusis watched him contentedly.
"A good wine is like a woman," he said. "Except of course it doesn't have breasts. Or arms and a head. And it can't speak or bear children. In fact, come to think of it, a good wine isn't remotely like a woman at all. A good wine is like a good wine."
"I'm rather like a good wine too," said Adrian.
"You improve with age?"
"No," said Adrian. "Whenever I'm taken out I get drunk."
"Except that in your case you get laid down after drinking, not before."

Innimellom danser de litt.
"Hør nå," sier hun, når refrenget i en gammel Bob Marley-låt nærmer seg.
Og Doppler hører.
If you are a big, big tree, synges det.
We are a small axe
Ready to cut you down
To cut you down
Maj Britt gestikulerer rytmisk underveis,
"if you are a big, big tree," synger hun, og peker på Doppler med den ene bambusstaven på you.
"We are a small axe," fortsetter hun, og peker inn mot seg selv med begge hender på we.
"Ready to cut you down," synger hun, og gjentar:
"To cut you down," og begge gangene denne siste linjen synges, mimer hun huggebevegelser på cut, og på down.
Når sanger er over, halter Maj Britt over til anlegget og får den til å begynne på nytt, og Doppler lar seg rive med. De synger og mimer begge to, under første refreng peker de på hverandre på you, men senere stiller de seg ved siden av hverandre og peker mot en usynlig tredjepart, mot alle svinene der ute som tror de har det så klart. Det er Maj Britt og Doppler mot resten av verden; hvis du tror du er så jævlig konge, og kan herse med andre mennesker eller med naturen, så kommer Maj Britt og Doppler og hugger deg ned, og hugger deg ned.

What about little microphones? What if everyone swallowed them, and they played the sounds of our hearts through little speakers, which could be in the pouches of our overalls? When you skateboarded down the street at night you could hear everyone's heartbeat, and they could hear yours, sort of like a sonar. One weird thing is, I wonder if everyone's heartbeat would start to beat at the same time, like how women who live together have their menstrual periods at the same time, which I know about, but don't really want to know about. That would be so weird, except that the place in the hospital where babies are born would sound like a chrystal chandelier in a houseboat, because the babies wouldn't have had time to match up their heartbeats yet. And at the finish line at the end of the New York City Marathon it would sound like war.

He had fallen in love with Hugo Alexander Timothy Cartwright the moment he laid eyes on him, when, as one of a string of five new arrivals, the boy had trickled into evening hall the first night of Adrian's second year.
Heydon-Bayley had nudged him.
"What do you reckon, Healey? Lush, or what?"
For once Adrian had remained silent. Something was terribly wrong.
It had taken him two painful terms to identify the symptoms. He looked them up in all the major textbooks. There was no doubt about it. All the authorities concurred: Shakespeare, Tennyson, Ovid, Keats, Georgette Heyer, Milton, they were of one opinion. It was love. The Big One.
Cartwright of the sapphire eyes and golden hair, Cartwright of the Limbs and Lips: he was Petrach's Laura, Milton's Lycidas, Catullu's Lesbia, Tennyson's Hallam, Shakespeare's fair boy and dark lady, the moon's Endymion. He was Garbo's salary, the national gallery, he was cellophane: he was the tender trap, the blank, unholy surprise of it all and the bright golden haze on the meadow: he was honey-honey, sugar-sugar, chirpy chirpy cheep-cheep and his baby-love: the voice of the turtle could be heard in the land, there were angels dining at the Ritz and a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.
Adrian had managed to coax Cartwright into an amusing half-hour in the House lavs two terms previously, be he had never doubted he could get the trousers down: that wasn't it. He wanted something more from him than the few spasms of pleasure that the limited activities of rubbing and licking and heaving and pushing could offer.
He wasn't sure what the thing was that he yearned for, but one thing he did know. It was less acceptable to love, to ache for eternal companionship, than it was to bounce and slurp and gasp behind the fives courts. Love was Adrian's guilty secret, sex his public pride.