I had thought a havoc in prose might be a substitute for havoc itself—sparing a man here and a woman there from the reality of acquainting them with the instinct.
O tin messiah.
Tawdry complex.
Bawling calfcake.
Jackass of your own worst describing.
Balloon.
It must be a wonderful sensation.
Not truth, so much as show-off.
Not love of you—infatuation with me.