The man, outside my own, who I have long fantasized about being stranded with on a deserted island, is dead.
It wasn’t for the sex. I chose him because I couldn’t imagine a more ardent thinker, seductive conversationalist or outrageous dreamer, who, staring into the belly of extinction, could help keep me laughing, crying and sane. My people, trust a writer, the brain is a beast and will find ways to care for its shell. I can survive on food-for-thought alone.
She knew him: from that point on he was going to lose control, his speech would become disjointed, he would be at her mercy, and he would not find his way back until he had reached the end. She led him by the hand to the bed as if he were a blind beggar on the street, and…
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