Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.

It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious

A woman who writes feels too much.

The trouble with therapy is that it makes life go backwards.

She is so naked and singular. She is the sum of yourself and your dream. Climb her like a monument, step after step. She is solid.

Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth.

Mood can be as important as sense.