Eye contact was a delicate matter. A quarter second of a shared glance was a violation of agreements that made the city operational.

Was she naked?" Lasher said. "To the waist," Cotsakis said. "From which direction?" Lasher said.

One of my earliest memories as a reader - I don't know how old I was, quite young - was a poem of his, called "Fog," and I remember the first verse, "The fog comes / on little cat feet".

Money has lost its narrative quality the way painting did once upon a time. Money is talking to itself.

The power of the dead is that we think they see us all the time. The dead have a presence. Is there a level of energy composed solely of the dead? They are also in the ground, of course, asleep and crumbling. Perhaps we are what they dream.

The world is shrinking into a kind of technological funnel. I think people are drawn into their technological devices, and this becomes a kind of subjective universe, into which much of the rest of the world simply does not enter.

Clouds are no deterrent. Clouds intensify the drama, trap and shape the light.