To tell the world they have a workaround without sharing what it is, to me suggests they're not comfortable with it. If they've got a workaround, go do it. I mean, quit screwing around with tantalizing the world.

Embodied in objects was a partial sense of sharing. They didn't lift their eyes from their respective sets. But noises bound them, a cyclist kick-starting, the plane that came winding down the five miles from its transatlantic apex, rippling the pictures on their screens. Objects were memory inert. Desk, the bed, et cetera. Objects would survive the one who died first and remind the other of how easily halved a life can become. Death, perhaps, was not the point so much as separation. Chairs, tables, dressers, envelopes. Everything was a common experience, binding them despite their indirections, the slanted apparatus of their agreeing. That they did agree was not in doubt. Faithlessness and desire. It wasn't necessary to tell them apart. His body, hers. Sex, love, monotony, contempt. The spell that had to be entered was out there among the unmemorized faces and uniform cubes of being. This, their sweet and mercenary space, was self-enchantment, the near common dream they'd countenanced for years. Only absences were fully shared.

Win, lose or draw, this is (a case in which) fast justice is better than slow justice.

Slow justice is justice denied. If we were going to lose, let me lose fast. If we're going to win, let me win fast. Seriously, there's no reason for this thing to be going on that much longer.

They litigated and lost, and now they don't get a free pass.

We're not rolling over on this and playing dead. This is going to be reversed.