I'm attracted to how fraught the parent-child relationship is, swerving so easily between love and hostility, with almost no plausible way to end, unless someone dies.

I love the way dates in a text make us think that truth will follow.

If a relationship is founded on love it doesn't end.

Freedom is something that dies unless it's used.

The relationship between a Russian and a bottle of vodka is almost mystical.

It would seem that, through touch, through kissing, we might have gouged a worm-size channel through which crucial information could pass, sublingual messages, the kind of pre-verbal intimacy that should flow with thunderous force between the bodies of people so bonded. We should have been able to bypass a mere inability to exchange language.