A story was a form of telepathy. By means of inking symbols onto a page$$$ she was able to send thoughts and feelings from her mind to her reader's. It was a magical process$$$ so commonplace that no one stopped to wonder at it.
Above all$$$ she wanted to look as though she had not given the matter a moment's thought$$$ and that would take time.
We go on our hands and knees and crawl our way towards the truth
He knew these last lines by heart and mouthed them now in the darkness. My reason for life. Not living$$$ but life. That was the touch. And she was his reason for life$$$ and why he must survive.
And though you think the world is at your feet$$$ it can rise up and tread on you.
The cost of oblivious daydreaming was always this moment of return$$$ the realignment with what had been before and now seemed a little worse.
Finally he spoke the three simple words that no amount of bad art or bad faith can every quite cheapen. She repeated them$$$ with exactly the same slight emphasis on the second word$$$ as though she were the one to say them first. He had no religious belief$$$ but it was impossible not to think of an invisible presence or witness in the room$$$ and that these words spoken aloud were like signatures on an unseen contract.
The anticipation and dread he felt at seeing her was also a kind of sensual pleasure$$$ and surrounding it$$$ like an embrace$$$ was a general elation--it might hurt$$$ it was horribly inconvenient$$$ no good might come of it$$$ but he had found out for himself what it was to be in love$$$ and it thrilled him.
So convenient a thing it is to be a reasonable creature$$$ since it enables one to find or make a reason for everything one has a mind to do.
That$$$ as we enjoy great advantages from the inventions of others$$$ we should be glad of an opportunity to serve others by any invention of ours; and th