Despite all their fears, we ask very little of the ones who never loved us. We do not ask for sympathy or pain or compassion. We simply want to know why.

How remarkable we are in our ability to hide things from ourselves - our conscious minds only a small portion of our actual minds, jellyfish floating on a vast dark sea of knowing and deciding.

It may be a childish torment, but we do not get to choose our demons.

We are each the love of someone's life.

Some things are so impossible, so fantastic, that when they happen, you are not at all surprised. Their sheer impossibility has made you imagine them too many times in your head, and when you find yourself on that longed-for moonlit path, it seems unreal but still, somehow, familiar. You dreamed of it, of course; you know it like a memory.

How hollow to have no secrets left; you shake yourself and nothing rattles. You're boneless as an anemone.

So tell me gentleman, tell me the time and place where it was easy to be a woman.