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Whatever made me the way I am left me hollow, empty inside, unable to feel. It doesn’t seem like a big deal. I’m quite sure most people fake an awful lot of everyday human contact. I just fake all of it. I fake it very well, and the feelings are never there. But I like kids. I could never have them, since the idea of sex is no idea at all. Imagine doing those things— How can you? Where’s your sense of dignity? But kids—kids
“I’m sure you’re right,” I said. “Until then, carpe diem.” “What?” “It’s Latin,” I said. “It means, complain in daylight.”
He looked to be just the sort of dull-witted brute who might shoot an innocent person—or even me.
