When I see you, 
my heart beat stops. 
Although you smile with that charm.... 
Still I need little bit more 
As much to breathe every second.

Beckett . . . Joyce . . . Proust . . . Shakespeare

Mr. Casaubon had never had a strong bodily frame, and his soul was sensitive without being enthusiastic: it was too languid to thrill out of self-consciousness into passionate delight; it went on fluttering in the swampy ground where it was hatched, thinking of its wings and never flying.

Do they choose to be so dense? Were they born that way? I have no friends. I have nothing. I say nothing. I am nothing.

Written By Laurie Halse Anderson

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