115: I love you best, babe. A certain aspect of our fiction holds. (I could not love you more.) We have no clear incentive to write mindless of taking chances, since we have already changed through blunt talk, too much and too often we have raised a toast to sharp minds and the madness of it’s desperately over the course of millions of accidents, doubting the rest (and how angry altering things gets afterward) and how it makes us enflamed for the late poetry of Rene Ricard.