“We make a baby, Sylvie, we do it making love. Not fucking on the kitchen floor.”
“Did we make love today, Slate?”“We fucked baby. That is what you and I do. We fuck. And today we did it damn well.”
“Then and now, beautiful, I’ll take you any way you come to me … Any way. I love this Sylvie, I loved that Sylvie. I just love you, baby.”
“We make sense of the world intentionally. Faced with chaos, we seek or make the familiar, and build up the world with it. Babies do it, we all do it; we filter out most of what our senses report.”
“Born to love you, baby,” he repeated. “Die lovin’ you, my Sylvie.”
“We will take a few moments and make fun of religious people, and we do this in love. No, we do, because we love to make fun of religious people.”