Activity

a grave robber, weary, exhausted, reaching down into some charnel mass

who asked me, with a fatuous (though unreturned) grin

His “area of specialty,” as he called it in a supercilious tone, was wolves

spend his time lying on beds, on chaise lounges and analysts’ couches, torpid and engorged, like a boa that has just swallowed a small rat

He knows what the man is thinking, the laconic pansy, a puff out for a joy ride