no emotion that's worth having

SAMUEL i am the ocean, crawling madly at your moon. and with one wanton whoop — "I don't keep alcohol around...after all, I can't get anything from it." Sam headed over to his tea tray, sorting through various bags and containers to find something he thought suitable (he enjoyed trying to match a tea to the person - for Zeph he settled on a woody, heavy tea from Torchline, dark and smooth). "Surely you can handle one drink without a shot in it?" He asked, looking back with a little smirk. He was getting out cups, busying his hands with the work, when Zeph asked him about the letter; Sam froze for a moment. He could hardly remember what he had written, he had been so away from himself throughout the illness; had he confessed to his crime in it? Trying desperately to seem nonchalant, he picked up the kettle and went to put it on the fire as he asked, eyes not on Zeph at all now: "I'm afraid I don't really remember what I put in it..the sickness really fogged up my mind. What do you mean?" — i melt into a sycophantic soup, & all that's left to do, is giggle, fawn, and swoon.