"Time itself slogged along in rhythm with my faltering steps. The people around me had gone on ahead long before, while my time and I hung back, struggling through the mud. The world around me was on the verge of great transformation... But the "changes" that came were just two dimensional stage sets, background without substance or meaning. I truged along through each day in its turn, looking up only rarely, eyes locked on the endless swamp that lay before me, planting my right foot, raising my left, planting my left foot, raising my right, never sure where I was, never sure I was headed in the right direction, knowing only that I had to keep moving one step at a time...

My whole body felt enveloped in some kind of membrane, cutting off any direct contact between me and the outside world. I couldn't touch 'them," and "they" couldn't touch me. I was utterly helpless, and as long as I remained in that state, 'they" were unable to reach out to me. I sat leaning against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. When I felt hungry I would nibble anything within reach, take a drink of water, and when sadness of it got to me, I'd knock myself out with whiskey. I didn't bathe. I didn't shave."

- murakami, norwegian wood (chapter 10)