We don't have a language for the senses. Feelings are images, sensations are like musical sounds.

My diary seems to keep me whole.

Everything with me is either worship and passion or pity and understanding. I hate rarely, though when I hate. I hate murderously.

I despise my own hypersensitiveness, which requires so much reassurance. It is certainly abnormal to crave so much to be loved and understood.

He has, like me, a sense of smell. I let him inhale me, then I slip away.

She walked in the shadow of Rango with a great feeling of being taken out of herself, of having no knowledge of what was happening to her, merely a pervading sense of flow.

It's all right for a woman to be, above all, human. I am a woman first of all.