“They talked no longer of love, but only of like. Talk of love made them feel banished and of the dark-ages. Like was beginning and new; like was when you grew wings that make you lithe and interesting; love was when those wings kept growing, became thick and unseemly— tarp-like— and then smothered you; wrapped you up, like a bodybag.”

— Tao Lin, “Sincerity,” a short story within Bed