And so he stopped looking at her eyes and started looking into them, returning their look before it was too late, before this connection between life and what came after life was lost, and let her see all the vileness inside him, all the hatreds of two thousand solitary nights, while the two of them were still in touch with the void in which the sum of every thing they'd ever said or done, every pain they'd inflicted, every joy they’d shared, would weigh less than the smallest feather on the wind.
"It's me," she said. "Just me."
"I know," he said, and kissed her. (page 559)
