Good God. I Don’t Believe St. Vincent

“simon,” She Whispered, Vaguely Surprised That She Had Just Used His First Name, For She Had Never Used It Even In The Privacy Of Her Thoughts. Moistening Her Dry Lips, She Tried Once More, And To Her Astonishment, She Did It Again. “simon…” “yes?” A New Tension Had Entered His Long, Hard Body, And At The Same Time, His Hand Moved Over The Shape Of Her Skull In The Softest Caress Possible. “please… Take Me To My Room.” Hunt Tilted Her Head Back Gently And Regarded Her With A Sudden Faint Smile Playing On His Lips. “sweetheart, I Would Take You To Timbuktu If You Asked.“

One Of The Women At The Clinic Had Remarked Dryly That Harrow's Personal Magnetism Not Only Affected Men, Women And Children But Also Extended To Armoires, Assorted Chairs And The Nearby Goldfish In A Bowl.

Fate Is The Malevolent Little Jester Sitting Up In The Heavens And Pondering Over How Ridiculous We Humans Are And He Does His Best To Make Fools Out Of All Of Us. And Sooner Or Later He Succeeds.

Set The World Afire. Just Let Me Hand You The Matches.

If You Have To Tell Someone They Call The Shots, They're Not Really Calling The Shots.