Warmth, perfume, rugs, soft lights, books. They do not appease me. I am aware of time passing, of all the world contains that I have not seen, of all the interesting people I have not met.

In every relationship, sooner or later, there is a court scene. Accusations, counter-accusations, a trial, a verdict.

You live out the confusions until they become clear.

I take pleasure in my transformations. I look quiet and consistent, but few know how many women there are in me.

I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live.

I don't hear your words: your voice reverberates against my body like another kind of caress, another kind of penetration. I have no power over your voice. It comes straight from you into me. I could stuff my ears and it would find its way into my blood and make it rise.

I am only responsible for my own heart, you offered yours up for the smashing my darling. Only a fool would give out such a vital organ