Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov
Timothy, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Tim-o-thy: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to lisp, at three, against the teeth. Tim. O. Thee. He was . . .
Brick, a literary journal
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Each poet will write / their own hell. In mine, like yours, / I’ll be condemned to beauty. — Yusuf Saadi