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Silas’s life ran from Wednesday to Wednesday, everything between marking time,
“He who desires but acts not, breeds pestilence.”
Wednesday by Wednesday, week by week, I have become yours for the taking.
“I had fifteen years to do that and failed,” Dominic said. “Why would that change now?” “Because you got pretty eyes.” Silas sounded lost. “Such sodding pretty eyes.”
“We disagree without hatred, and fuck as we choose. If I were to give my idea of utopia…”
Wednesday by Wednesday, week by week, I have loved you.”
He feared in his bones that he’d give in if Dom asked, and Dom knew it and didn’t ask. Silas loved him more for that, with a heart so poorly suited and so unaccustomed to love that he felt it might burst its banks like one of London’s choked, fetid rivers.
That’s what I can’t see past, or over. I can’t see a sodding thing but you.”
‘The man who never alters his opinion is like standing water, and breeds reptiles of the mind.’
Dominic could feel it as a physical thing—happiness closing over him like warm water, soothing the cuts and burns.
