My method of making love is quite different than you might expect. I prefer to find a girl taking a nap at the local preschool, and then make love to them as they scream in my large, sound-proofed, white van. I then make love on their face, and throw them in an ice-chest of bleach. For pillow talk, I usually say, "Your parents can't hear you," and keep their teddy bear as a momento. You could call me a hopeless romantic, I guess.
I watched clouds awobbly from the floor o' that kayak. Souls cross ages like clouds cross skies, an' tho' a cloud's shape nor hue nor size don't stay the same, it's still a cloud an' so is a soul. Who can say where the cloud's blowed from or who the soul'll be 'morrow? Only Sonmi the east an' the west an' the compass an' the atlas, yay, only the atlas o' clouds.
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