Facts are lonely things.

What you see is not what we see. What you see is distracted by memory, by being who you are, all this time, for all these years.

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

People think about who they are in the stillest hour of the night. I carry this thought, the child's mystery and terror of this thought, I feel this immensity in my soul every second of my life.

Sometimes I see something so moving I know I’m not supposed to linger. See it and leave. If you stay too long, you wear out the wordless shock. Love it and trust it and leave.

When you try to unravel something you've written, you belittle it in a way. It was created as a mystery.

At night the sky was very near, sprawled in star smoke and gamma cataclysms, but she didn't see it the way she used to, as soul extension, dumb guttural wonder, a thing that lived outside language in the oldest part of her.