“I make conversation like I make love to myself—I let my hands do all the talking.”

“I like spending all my time making things with my hands. Mostly I make love to myself.”

“Except...I do. Of course I do. Because as his hands gently cup my waist, I don't make a sound. As he swivels me around to face him, I don't make a sound. I don't need to. We're still talking. Every touch he makes, every imprint of his skin is like another word, another thought, a continuation of our conversation. And we're not done yet. Not yet.”

“Sometimes I do talk to myself, I consider the company and figure I need an intelligient conversation.”

“I will never let myself be caught like that—any marriage I make will be my own. A choice. A free one.”

“Talking to people makes me feel like sleeping. Only my ghostly and imaginary friends, only the conversations I have in my dreams, are genuinely real and substantial.”