A Language Is Everything You Do.

I'm Not Senile," I Snapped. "if I Burn The House Down It Will Be On Purpose.

All I Can Hope For Is A Reconstruction: The Way Love Feels Is Always Only Approximate.

Once A Month I Wake In The Night, Slippery With Terror. I'm Afraid, Not Because There's Someone In The Room, In The Dark, In The Bed, But Because There Isn't. I'm Afraid Of The Emptiness, Which Lies Beside Me Like A Corpse.

So This Was The Rest Of His Life. It Felt Like A Party To Which He'd Been Invited, But At An Address He Couldn't Actually Locate. Someone Must Be Having Fun At It, This Life Of His; Only, Right At The Moment, It Wasn't Him.

If I Love You, Is That A Fact Or A Weapon?