"What, really?" Ned asks with just a dash of sarcasm, but it's softened by the fact that he's smiling - really smiling, on that day, of all days. How like Ginsberg that is, though, he thinks. Getting the urge to hug people at work, even if he does manage to restrain himself. There's such an energy, such a flamboyance to him that Ned envies at times. He's not like that - whether by nature or by long practice he doesn't know. He thinks it might be the latter. That for so many years he had suppressed and withheld himself, had bleached out all (or most) outward show of eccentricities, that he's stuck that way. So it's nice, to be near Ginsberg, with all his flair. To appreciate it, the way it ought to be appreciated.

"I'm better at them than I used to be." Curious, how easy it is to say these kinds of things, tucked up against Ginsberg like this, the two of them locked up here, away from the messy confusing painful world. "A lot, actually. I used to- well, I couldn't stand them. Or touching people in general. For a long time." It's something he still has trouble with, on occasion, but not now. His sensitivity to it varies from day to day, and sometimes in larger arcs. He's gone through months on end when he couldn't bear it, followed by periods of relative indifference, only to slip back into avoiding touch at all costs. Ned's given up hoping for any kind of permanent progress. As an afterthought, he adds, "Touching you is nice, though." Just so Ginsberg's clear on that.