I look in the mirror. There's me. What's in the mirror is not real. So am I unreal?
Break a vase, and the love that reassembles the fragments is stronger than that love which took its symmetry for granted when it was whole.
How can I turn from Africa and live?
Peel your own image from the mirror. Sit. Feast on your life.
Summer for prose and lemons, for nakedness and languor.
Damn wind shift sudden as a woman mind.