Each time I told my story, I lost a bit, the smallest drop of pain. It was that day that I knew I wanted to tell the story of my family. Because horror on Earth is real and it is every day. It is like a flower or like the sun; it cannot be contained.

As she brought prospective buyers through, the realtor said it was an oil stain, but it was me, seeping out of the bag.

I had rescued the moment by using my camera and in that way had found how to stop time and hold it. No one could take that image away from me because I owned it.

She no longer believed in talk. It never rescued anything.

Heaven is comfort, but it's still not living.

When I was raped I lost my virginity and almost lost my life. I also discarded certain assumptions I had held about how the world worked and about how safe I was.

How to Commit the Perfect Murder" was an old game in heaven. I always chose the icicle: the weapon melts away.