115: Devouring you and reckoning... I love you best, babe. A doubting aspect of my fiction holds. (I could not love you more in the course of altering things.) I have no clear incentive to divert strong minds. Nay,
mindless myself of taking chances, since I’ve already changed through fierce blunt talk — too much talk and I’ve raised a toast to loving you too desperately... The certain madness of it, as my judgment’s grown less certain over the course of a million accidents (how angry rewrite gets, afterward) and how it makes your tan beauty (and me) enflamed for pale, poker-faced poets like Rene.