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I don't deserve you and I never will.
Thoughts keep tumbling over one another. I oscillate (a word I rather like) between loving you and hating you for being so captivating and hating certain obvious weaknesses in myself which allow me to find you so captivating when, at more sober times, it is nearly objectively clear to me that you are not all that exceptional.
I want to possess you, but possessing you would mean the end of the desire to possess you and I don't want the desire to go away. In the end, it is the desire to love and not love that we desire... or something like that I don't remember exactly I haven't read that book for a long time. Amherst was a long time ago. I wasn't impotent at Amherst.
I am Swann. I am inoperable.
Bombardini strives to be of infinite size: to overwhelm the other via the infinite increase of the self - even Descartes would blush at this.
A new take on Lewis Carroll's riddle: How is a maligned, immature raven like the writing desk of Rick Vigorous?
Frequent only runs this operation for tax benefits. That I publish a quarterly at all is part of the sham, but I love the quarterly...
Last night, I dreamt that, in mid-conversation, you began to chew on the carpet in my living room - really chewing on it. You ate right through it and continued until you reached the core of the earth, chomping your way through tectonic plates, magma (which is just indoor lava, right?), and nickel. I looked over the hole and accidentally slipped inside. I feared I'd be incinerated but I went into low orbit instead (that's what would theoretically happen, barring incineration, anyway) and just went back and forth between the hole in Cleveland and the hole in what was probably Mongolia or something... waiting for someone to pull me out on the other side, but no one did. Where did you go? Who pulled you out? Was it Rex Young?
I don't want to wake up with this pain in my stomach any more... microscopic you-shaped pins sticking in every pore as I, poor Rick, pour sweat and clutch at my abdomen as if clutching at pain ever did anything except magnify the pain.
I hate wordplay like that too. We have that in common. I really like that about you.
Ask yourself when we (everyone) became so afraid of change that we'd stick to certain modes of behavior no matter how self-destructive they might repeatedly prove to be.
Habit: that slow moving arranger of things without which no room would be habitable... at least I think that's how he wrote it.
If we end up handcuffed to each other in a massive dessert, I'm sorry in advance.
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