Every advance in knowledge and technique is matched by a new kind of death, a new strain. Death adapts, like a viral agent.

Say heat. Say wet between my legs. Say legs. Seriously, I want you to. Stockings. Whisper it. The word is meant to be whispered.

A dead afternoon in a dark bar was not the worst of fates.

Mirrors and images. Or sex and love. These are two separate systems that we miserably try to link.

I hate my life. I'm at the point where I want to hear about other people's lives. it's like switching from fiction to biography.

Fear is self-awareness raised to a higher level.

There is a balance, a kind of standoff between the time continuum and the human entity, our frail bundle of soma and psyche. We eventually succumb to time, it's true, but time depends on us. We carry it in our muscles and genes, pass it on to the next set of time-factoring creatures, our brown-eyed daughters and jug-eared sons, or how would the world keep going. Never mind the time theorists, the cesium devices that measure the life and death of the smallest silvery trillionth of a second.... We were the only crucial clocks, our minds and bodies, way stations for the distribution of time.