I deserve that, don't I, some sort of blazing love that I can live with.

Here I am, a bundle of past recollections and future dreams, knotted up in a reasonably attractive bundle of flesh. I remember what this flesh has gone through; I dream of what it may go through.

I opened the door and blinked out into the bright hall. I had the impression it wasn't night and it wasn't day, but some lurid third interval that had suddenly slipped between them and would never end.

I am afraid. I am not solid, but hollow. I feel behind my eyes a numb, paralyzed cavern, a pit of hell, a mimicking nothingness.

If you pluck out my heart To find what makes it move, You’ll halt the clock That syncopates our love.

They would grow old. They would forget me.

Dancing is the normal prelude to intercourse.