She will come when I least suspect, though I suspect all the time. How it’s supposed to happen I have no idea, but that’s the way the best things come to pass, n’est-ce pas? She will be all I dreamed of and more, and nothing like I’d ever expected. Actually, dreams are too hazy to be any good guide to these solidities, and I wonder if anyone can ever have it go that any arrangement of molecules could have such perfect geometries. She will love me. This I have the hardest time believing, though I imagine it is not outside the realm of plausibility — just that, you know, there are so many things she’d have to look past — it’s tantamount to saying she’d have to be blind to see the real me. And I might guess that in the final analysis, that’s what we all want: the impossible, flesh and blood, whispering sweet nothings in our ear.
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