“Intimacy is a word with eight letters. A word with a sly hiss to it. But then it begins, like love affairs do, with a chance meeting, and then a raw empty something needing to be sated, something you didn‘t notice before…but suddenly it squawks like a hungry bird, day and night, refusing to be ignored. You love and revile it, this sore shrieking something. Or is it nothing? Or everything? It doesn‘t matter. It‘s yours. It‘s you.”