I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.

A woman who writes feels too much.

Poetry to me is prayer.

I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.

Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.

I suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room. Kaboom! Like a genie out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of the bedroom.

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