What good is knowledge if it just floats in the air? It goes from computer to computer. It changes and grows every second of every day. But nobody actually knows anything.

Only a catastrophe gets our attention. We want them, we depend on them. As long as they happen somewhere else.

People hurried past, the others of the street, endless anonymous, twenty-one lives per second, race-walking in their faces and pigments, sprays of fleetest being.

World is supposed to mean something that's self-contained. but nothing is self-contained.

I've always seen myself in sentences. I begin to recognize myself, word by word, as I work through a sentence.

A mystery novel localizes the awesome force of the real death outside the book, winds it tightly in a plot.

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