Now I am just an elderly lady who is full of spleen, who humps around greater Boston in a God-awful hat, who never lived and yet outlived her time, hating men and dogs and Democrats.

The man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate.

There once was a miller with a daughter as lovely as a grape. He told the king that she could spin gold out of common straw. The king summoned the girl and locked her in a room full of straw and told her to spin it into gold or she would die like a criminal. Poor grape with no one to pick. Luscious and round and sleek. Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn. (Rumpelstiltskin)

Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.

Women tell time by the body. They are like clocks. They are always fastened to the earth, listening for its small animal noises.

I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.

I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.