Mortimer sat at his desk in the room he never slept in anymore sucking on a nearly empty honey-stick. He was writing a letter. His handwriting was neat and quick, a relic of his childhood when speech took more effort than seemed worth it. He'd been telling the truth when he told Ali that he had learned to fuck before he learned to talk. For
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It's hard to know if she's finished reading them, but she's got a smile on her face when she's found to have fallen asleep, so there's a good sign.
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