Promises from Lo are like bars at 2 a.m.--empty.
What’s going to happen, he breathes, is that I’m going to carry you through this door. I’m going to draw out every single moment until you’re exhausted. And I’m going to move so slow that three months...
I’m remarrying you, Lil. Fuck, I’d remarry you a hundred times until it stuck.
. . because we cannot conceive that as we grow up our own minds will become so enlarged and elevated that we ourselves shall then regard as trifling those objects and pursuits we now so fondly cherish...
Fine. Such a stupid word really. It feels empty and weightless. It’s the kind of word you use to hide the truth.