I have a theory that Southern madhouses are full of gifted women who were stifled.

I think we all get too caught up in doing instead of just being sometimes.

That sinuous southern life, that oblique and slow and complicated old beauty, that warm thick air and blood warm sea, that place of mists and languor and fragrant richness.

Laughter nibbled at my lips like tiny fish in warm water.

Walter loves the sea, and I need it in some elemental way that I cannot even come close to verbalizing. I become dim and shriveled somehow at my very core if I am away from the sea too long. When I return to it I seem to fill up and overflow with it, soaking in the vast, sighing wetness of it like a parched vine in a long, soft spring rain.

Anger is its own excuse and its own reward.

Didn't I say I'd always be your same stars? If you get to missing me, just look up.