Regret leads to overeating and naps.
Suspense combines curiosity with fear and pulls them up a rising slope.
Posterity--the forlorn child of nineteenth century optimism--grows ever harder to conceive.
One's fetishes are fascinating, but not because of their beauty or significance. The same could be said for one's genitals, or one's children.
The intimacy of love absolves us of our guilty separateness.
It's no good being exclusive if nobody wants in.