Let all of life be an unfettered howl. Like the crowd greeting the gladiator. Don’t stop to think, don’t interrupt the scream, exhale, release life’s rapture. Everything is blooming. Everything is flying. Everything is screaming, choking on its screams. Laughter. Running. Let-down hair. That is all there is to life.
Is that a poem that lost its formatting or just a prose contemplation? Either way, it’s very nice. I like it. Very Transcendental 🙂
I think it’s something in-between. Nabokov is traditionally considered a short story writer.