The problem with Jane is that she likes nothing except books. Worse, she sleeps with literally. As she has no bedside table, she asks her lover of the moment on the pillow, puts a bookmark in the spout and out the light. His bed still feels the printing and dust. No after shave, no cologne. With males, it's hard. A book is sexless, she knows? He opens his pages and she snuggled into his arms. His library is his harem. The books do not lie and do not fly, are not infidels, but they do not offer small gifts, do not kiss on the hairline to fall asleep, do not make you laugh for real. Wake up, Jane, wake up. But nothing to do, started a new romance, a romance novel. And then, after all, it's all the same. The novel tells a story, love is blind: in both cases you are no longer the same, you adapt, it's only a matter of gullible. We came across a good novel, you fall in love. A kiss, a page. That's right, Jane, what you feel?
Jane looked at me with a look placid and read on, without looking at me. Suffice to say that I had nothing to soliloquy.
His new excitement was green and white, rather broad. His fingers were clenched gnawed fingernails on cracked skin, as if trying helplessly to reject it. His big green eyes bloodshot jumping from word to word, more and faster, louder and louder.
She read the world according to Garp, Irving.
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