The rhythm of the weekend, with its birth, its planned gaiety, and its announced end, followed the rhythm of life and was a substitute for it.
My God,' he gasped, 'you're fun to kiss.
smoking had come to be an important punctuation mark in the long sentence of a day on the road.
The things that'll make you fail I'll love always.
So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight.
Hard to sit here and be close to you, and not kiss you.