I put my hand on him. Touching him has always been important to me, it was something I lived for. I never… — Jonathan Safran Foer
I put my hand on him. Touching him has always been important to me, it was something I lived for. I never could explain why. Little, nothing touches, my fingers against his shoulder, the outsides of our thighs touching as we squeeled together on the bus. I couldnt explain it, but I needed it. Sometimes I imagined stiching all of our little touches together. How many hundreds of thousands of fingers brushing against each other does it take to make love?
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It broke my heart into more pieces than my heart was made of, why can't people say what they mean at the time? (p. 279)
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I spent my life learning to feel less.
Every day I felt less.
Is that growing old? Or is it something worse?
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p. 180
