“Fingernails filling with silt, scraping the sculpted...”
“Time: old cold time, old sorrow, settling down in layers like silt in a pond.”
“I have to admit I’m not real sure you being equipped to scrape her off at the drop of a hat fills me with joy.” “I get that, Tab. What you don’t get is, she isn’t you.”
“Let us sculpt in hopeless silence all our dreams of speaking.”
“The mountains are where God proves He’s better than Michelangelo at sculpting.”
“He pumped her roughly, filling the room with the sounds of their breathing and the smell of their sin. She felt drunk, this man’s harsh energy as intoxicating as ten bottles of wine. She stroked his chest and dug her fingernails into his shoulders. Spurs, telling him to make it rougher.”