“For the record, my own loyalties are uncomplicated. I adore few humans more than I love books. I make no promises, but I do not expect to purchase a Kindle or a Nook or any of their offspring.”

I hope to keep bringing home bound paper books until my shelves snap from their weight, until there is no room in my apartment for a bed or a couch or another human being, until the floorboards collapse and my eyes blur to dim. But the book, bless it, is not a simple thing.

We do not know what is being done in our name. Worse, we do not ask.

If they are ignored, [Alice] Callaghan worries, the dangers of handing the streets over to private security forces will only grow. ‘Until they begin interfering with the rights of middle-class people,’ she says, ‘you won’t have anybody crying about it. But by then, it will be too late.’

You are the cream in my coffee as you lather me with your sweet kisses, brightening up my every morning. Your existence is ever so adoring.

Not knowing what he sees, he adores the sight; That false face fools and fuels his delight.

Sunflowers never beg to be adored.

Even the moon adore the way your brave heart beats.

I adore being between you and these sheets.

There comes a moment in every person’s life when they realise they adore me.

Getting married is like trading in the adoration of many for the sarcasm of one.

I adore the struggle you carry in yourself. I adore your terrifying sincerity.