Sleep.

The thing is, we only slept. We didn't fuck or talk or prophesy any future fucking or talking: we turned the music off and yanked the lamp cord down and lay, our bodies two commas curled next to eachother against my sheets.

A typographical error, and I knew it: I could hear the whispers outside my room, all the air exiting the hall in one long swallow when I closed the door. And you know, I'm not that anxious to correct them. I will let the world think we are in love, that there is something alive and moving and happening in here. I won't let them see it: the accident of my body, next to and under and spilled around his body, like something shot us dead here in our tracks and we fell into these shapes, shapes wheere we might belong exactly.