Henry loves my hair almost as though it is a creature unto itself, as though it has a soul to call its own, as though it could love him back.

What are you doing?" Nothing. Breaking and entering. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.

I breathe slowly and deeply. I make my eyes still under eyelids, I make my mind still, and soon, Sleep, seeing a perfect reproduction of himself, comes to be united with his facsimile.

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.

‎I never wanted to have anything in my life that I couldn't stand losing. But it's too late for that.

I'm sorry. I didn't know you were coming or I'd have cleaned up a little more. My life, I mean, not just the apartment.

We are often insane with happiness. We are also very unhappy for reasons neither of us can do anything about. Like being separated.