Each might have been a week except for night’s failure to come and close the deal. - Jonathan Lethem

The house on The Crescent, stepped into the hillside, had no face.

We knew it was holy. Every sentence we cherished was sturdy and Biblical in its form, carved somehow by hand-dragged implement or slapped onto sheets by an inky key. For sentences were sculptural, were we the only ones who understood? Sentences were bodies, too, as horny as the flesh-envelopes we wore around the house all day.

Don't try to figure me out," I said. "It doesn't work—I've tried it myself.