I couldn't ever boil potatoes over the heat of your affection. Your love would never bridge a gap; it wouldn't even fill up the hole that the mice came through.

The night is a skin pulled over the head of day that the day may be in torment.

Our bones ache only while the flesh is on them.

I have a narrative, but you will be put to it to find it.

The heart of the jealous knows the best and most satisfying love, that of the other's bed, where the rival perfects the lover's imperfections.

And must I, perchance, like careful writers, guard myself against the conclusions of my readers?

I can draw and write, and you'd be foolish not to hire me.