There was something wicked about him. Maybe it was the way he smiled. The way his whole face seems to lift in joy was her sinful addiction. Maybe it was the way he talked. There was a pleasant line among his mouth when he spoke, and she clung to his lips, desperate for every word that poured out. Maybe it was his words. They seemed to point out the truth in things, and they were never wrong. Maybe it was his way of foretelling his environment. Maybe he himself was wicked, a magical formula, but alas he was the only one who couldn't see it. - excerpt from a story I'll never write