Giving a reader a sex scene that is only half right is like giving her half a kitten. It is
not half as cute as a whole kitten; it is a bloody, godawful mess. A half-good sex scene is not half as hot; it actually moves into the negative numbers, draining any heat from the surrounding material.
Examining the actual contents of my crying, I found a quailing sludge emotion, with a foul insecticide taste. If it was a peanut, you would spit it out. Yet I was indulging this toxic goo, giving it its head and letting it dictate my actions. People had every good reason to despise me.
All great works start with mistake. Ain’t no exception in this fact.
That sense of the world being the lack of something dogged him for years, and when it stopped dogging him, he felt unmoored.
Then we all sat around; we were supposed to be awed. I was brattishly unawed.
Then my tears come blinding, and he lead me by the arm. I stumble in the elevator, thinking of that moon rain. Salt that last forever, grief that live beyond all life.