Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.

One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.

Abundance is scooped from abundance yet abundance remains.

We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!

Today life opened inside me like an egg.

The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.

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)