Wherever there were horses or ponies the mushrooms always sprang up.

Love . . . is like nature, but in reverse; first it fruits, then it flowers, then it seems to wither, then it goes deep, deep down into its burrow, where no one sees it, where it is lost from sight, and ultimately people die with that secret buried inside their souls.

There was always a real reason for everything - why spoons tarnished, and jam furred, and people declined into God, or drink, or card games.

After that dark woman you search for someone who will fit into the irregular corners of your heart.

Countries are either mothers or fathers, and engender the emotional bristle secretly reserved for either sire.

The other me, who did not mean to drown herself, went under the sea and remained there for a long time. Eventually she surfaced near Japan and people gave her gifts but she had been so long under the sea she did not recognize what they were. She is a sly one. Mostly at night we commune. Night. Harbinger of dream and nightmare and bearer of omens which defy the music of words. In the morning the fear of her going is very real and very alarming. It can make one tremble. Not that she cares. She is the muse. I am the messenger.

I knew I had done something awful. I had killed love, before I even knew the enormity of what love meant.