“He brought his great hand to rest on an early edition of Bram Stoker's novel and smiled, but said nothing. Then he moved quietly away into another section.”

“He pulled his lips away and rested his forehead against hers, trying to keep himself from getting another erection. It took great strength of will, but he did it.”

“He rarely gathered news; people brought it to him. It was said he made up every edition of The Maycombe Tribune out of his own head and wrote it down on the linotype.”

“He must have felt a surge as he pulled away out of my mouth careful not to come too early and ruin the rest of his playtime.”

“With a secret smile, not unlike that of a healthy child,he walked along, peacefully, quietly. He wore his gown and walked along exactly like the other monks, but his face and his step, his peaceful downward glance, his peaceful downward-hanging hand, and every finger of his hand spoke of peace, spoke of completeness, sought nothing, imitated nothing, reflected a continuous quiet, an unfading light, an invulnerable peace.”

“Ah crap!" I instantly shooed away darkness and whatnot, so that I was solid, visible me again. "Sorry, Stevie Rae. I forgot I'd gone all Bram Stoker.”