Plenty’s been said with fingers tracing patterns on bare flesh. In her head, everything is about patterns. Fred spends hours charting them, trying to sort out the important bits of data from the static. There’s too many dependencies, too much recursion, not enough paper, and not enough time.
It’s a cold day in Hell, and that’s nothing new.
Faith’s mouth tastes like saltwater taffy and cigarettes.
Heaven is for hooking up.