She had not spoken a word to Adrian or he to her, but tangled up in each other their bodies spoke all of their volumes. — It works, there is nothing wrong with it. You have a hole, it’s a poultice. You have an eye, it’s an image. My boy, it’s your last resort. Will you marry it, marry it, marry it. — The Applicant by Sylvia Plath It kind of felt like going on an…