Trapped in silence, Marco traces apologies and adorations across Celia's body with his tongue. Mutely expressing all the things he cannot speak aloud. He finds other ways to tell her, his fingers leaving faint trails of ink in their wake. He savors every sound he elicits from her. The entire room trembles as they come together. And though there are a great many fragile objects contained within it, nothing breaks.

The truest tales require time and familiarity to become what they are.

A woman I should like to think I know rather well and a woman I had always considered a mystery, are in fact the same person.

I have been surrounded by love letters you two have built each other for years, encased in tents.

I paint very messy. I throw paint around. So when I let myself do the same sort of thing with my writing, and I would just write and write and write and revise, that's when I found my rhythm in writing.

Because I do not wish to know,” he says. “I prefer to remain unenlightened, to better appreciate the dark.

I do not like sitting idly by when something clearly isn't right. I feel... not trapped but something like it, and I don't know what to about.