what was it like?
something did, no?
there are no terrible things to say in here. only true and false.
yes. please do.
that would be the time to do it, yes. i have a book that might help you get better.
wow. yes, wow. wow indeed. she hands caden the very thick book. he flips through it, catching words and snippets here and there: clairaudience .  vaginal juices.  the echo began .  plumbing .  cats eat rats .  me who am as a raw nerve .  crease.
that's forty-five dollars. wow.
that's wonderful. god bless! i guess you'll have to discover your real self. right?
varies.
listen, there's an absolutely brilliant novel written by a four year old.
hardly. little winky is a virulent anti-semite.
the story follows his initiation into the klan, his immersion in the pornographic snuff industry and his ultimate degradation at the hands of a black ex-convict named eric washington jackson jones.  johnson.  jefferson, with whom he embarks on a brutal homosexual affair.
azpiazu killed himself at five.
he would've written so much more had he lived. they developed a method -- some software -- to determine what he would've written had he lived to ten, twenty, thirty, etcetera.
which part?
i don't know, why did you?
i said, why would you?
hi. he sees madeline sitting across the aisle. she is different, sexier in make-up and a tight dress.
when you cancelled, it freed me up. so i'm traveling, too! yippee!
but it's getting you. you're almost non-recognizable now. madeline spreads her legs a bit and smiles at caden. he nervously grins, goes back to his book. he reads: