My apartment is basically a couch, an armchair, and about four thousand books.

I think about my mother singing after lunch on a Summer afternoon, twirling in blue dress across the floor of her dressing room

The compelling thing about making art - or making anything, I suppose - is the moment when the vaporous, insubstantial idea becomes a solid there, a thing, a substance in a world of substances.

He was not in the house. He did not come back that night. Days went by, and at last she understood that he would not return at all.

Love you..." Henry-" Always..." Oh God oh God-" World enough..." No!" And time..." Henry!

I sleep all day. Noises flit around the house- garbage truck in the alley, rain, tree rapping against the bedroom window. I sleep. I inhabit sleep firmly, willing it, wielding it, pushing away dreams, refusing, refusing. Sleep is my lover now, my forgetting, my opiate, my oblivion. [...] It is afternoon, it is night, it is morning. Everything is reduced to this bed, this endless slumber that makes the days into one day, makes time stop, stretches and compacts time until it is meaningless.

We laugh and laugh, and nothing can ever be sad, no one can be lost, or dead, or far away: right now we are here, and nothing can mar our perfection, or steal the joy of this perfect moment.