Learning To Decipher Words Had Only Added

She Had Always Lived Her Best Life In Dreams. She Knew No Greater Pleasure Than That Moment Of Passage Into The Other Place, When Her Limbs Grew Warm And Heavy And The Sparkling Darkness Behind Her Lids Became Ordered And Doors Opened; When Conscious Thought Grew Owl's Wings And Talons And Became Other Than Conscious.

First, She Wanted To Taste The Sweat That Shone On His Throat And Fragile Clavicle; Then He Chose To Undo The Tails Of Her Shirt, That She Had Tied Up Beneath Her Breasts; Then, But Then Impatient They Forgot About Taking Turns And Quarreled Silently, Eagerly Over Each Other, Like Pirates Dividing Treasure Long Sought, Long Imagined, Long Withheld.

'love Is A Myth,' Grandfather Trout Said. 'like Summer.' 'what?' 'in Winter,' Grandfather Trout Said, 'summer Is A Myth. A Report, A Rumor. Not To Be Believed In. Get It? Love Is A Myth. So Is Summer.'

Learning To Decipher Words Had Only Added To The Pleasures Of Holding Spines And Turning Pages, Measuring The Journey To The End With A Thumb-riffle, Poring Over Frontispieces. Books! Opening With A Crackle Of Old Glue, Releasing Perfume; Closing With A Solid Thump.

God, He Thought, Her Eyes Are So Bright, Flashing, Deep, Full Of Promise, All Those Things Eyes Are In Books But Never Are In Life, And She Was His.