He sent the Nobel money to his wife. I know, my Albert is with me when he is with me, and entirely absent otherwise. Love enters through the mouth. I will love him and starve as well. Some men are married to space.
Some men are married to time.
Love is a roll of the dice. It does not cure the need for science any more than science cures the need for love. I learned gratitude for they have relieved me of the burden of possessions, my eyes are too big for my bookshelf anyway. I learned to pretend that money in the mail is sexy, to try to relax while knowing that no check equals Apocalypse Next Month, to relax at their surprise inquisitions that dot my life like morse code, just to frisk me for any extra nickels I didn't report to them.