I put my hand on him. Touching him has always been important to me, it was something I lived for. I never could explain why. Little, nothing touches, my fingers against his shoulder, the outsides of our thighs touching as we squeeled together on the bus. I couldnt explain it, but I needed it. Sometimes I imagined stiching all of our little touches together. How many hundreds of thousands of fingers brushing against each other does it take to make love?

Factory farmers talk about their desire to feed the world. That's not what they're doing. They're feeding the world with really, really cheap stuff.

What were we spending so much time doing if not getting to know each other?

I wanted to hit him. I wanted to hold him. I wanted to shout myself into his ear.

I didn't feel empty. I wished I'd felt empty. ... I wanted to be empty like an overturned pitcher. But I was full like a stone.

Tomorrow was over the horizon, and would take an entire day to reach.

But I still couldn't figure out what it all meant. The more I found out, the less I understood.