Есть многое на свете, друг Горацио, что и не снилось нашим мудрецам.
A bright afternoon, a brief rest, a pressure of lips and hands and bodies. Neither one of you was very good at kissing, or at anything else you tried, but it was a start, and it was sweet. You wonder what became of her.

Dinner turns out to be something best described as a steak if they made steaks out of sex and hope and joy, accompanied by a red wine with notes of autumn childhood happiness and a light finish of your first kiss. Which is all to the good, until you begin to ponder what they killed to make a steak that tastes like that, and which grapes they crushed to earn that wine.

You'll shine so bright that Vega won't be able to claim the glow for himself. Of course, this means more sleepless nights, more pots of black coffee, more stress dreams when you do manage to return home to your long-unwashed sheets.

The panel will take place in a dingy, yellow-lit room with yellow wallpaper and an unfortunate corpse-gray carpet.


Outside, the snowstorm's picked up, and snowflakes the size of cotton balls hit the windows and stick.

If we do not understand our own motives, we do not understand our own limits.

And then it's him, and you, and you're naked and he is, and the grammar gets complicated again, constructions active and passive and midway between. Oh, forget it. The linguist's endless rules and diagrams, the thick tomes with their bullet points and many subheadings, have never fully accommodated or described the endless invention of living human beings with tongues. And fingers. Palms. Hips. Thighs. Not to mention other parts of the body, which have a tendency to speak for themselves.

"Go jump in a lake and die,