They're just words is all. Powerless. Vocabulary. Dialogue.

If I could wake up in a different place, at a different time, could I wake up as a different person?

The only person we'll hate more than each other is ourselves.

That's what I love about fire, how it would kill me as quick as anybody else. How it can't know I'm its mother. It's so beautiful and powerful and beyond feeling anything for anybody, that's what I love about fire.

What I mean is sometimes, for an artist, chronic pain can be a gift.

With my eyes closed, I ask if she knows how this will all turn out. "Long-term or short-term?" she asks. Both. "Long-term," she says, "we're all going to die. Then our bodies will rot. No surprise there. Short-term, we're going to live happily ever after." Really? "Really," she says. "So don't sweat it.

On a night without moon or stars you can't see a thing, but you can imagine anything.