She is not “my girl.” She belongs to herself. And I am blessed, for with all her freedom, she still comes back to me, moment-to-moment, day-by-day, and night-by-night. How much more blessed can I be?
She was like milk - too pale, too pure, too simple. She was made to be spoiled.
Yes, I was infatuated with you; I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn’t stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my minds, my dreams. And you weren’t having any of those.
Telling the substitute teacher the wrong names: a classic. Telling the substitute teacher you are so old and born again every day, that ten thousand names could never define you, that you’re a shadowed mass swirling forth from jupiter, that your father is time and your mother is death, that you’ll swallow any scream of hers as you grow larger and ever larger: a super classic, king of the school, no homework ever.