Status Updates From Forgery

Now my beautiful farmhouse and converted barn seemed bleak and lonely.
I imagined myself blundering from one structure to the other, mad and disheveled, with a relentless Brontëan wind as my only companion. Why would I want to grow old there?

He was frighteningly thin and small and reminded me of skeletons of prehistoric people, reassembled on lab tables; there was a certain "this skull goes with this collar bone" unity about him, although the final effect was not exactly a person.

On the way in, he'd noticed a large contingent of backpacking American girls, all long hair, shorts, and direct gazes, and he was in a hurry to buy them all some drinks lest they evaporate, unmolested, into the fog.

"We are young men. There's no reason to sit with a salad as if we are waiting for death."

Not what I was expecting, but enjoying the ride.