Despite my empty mouth, the words are in my mind.

I put my hand on him. Touching him was always so important to me. It was something I lived for. I never could explain why. Little, nothing touches. My fingers against his shoulder. The outsides of our thighs touching as we squeezed together on the bus. I couldn’t explain it, but I needed it. Sometimes I imagined stitching all of our little touches together. How many hundreds of thousands of finger brushing against each other does it take to make love? Why does anyone ever make love?

Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close