I was tired of men. Hanging in doorways, standing too close, men who made you love them then changed their minds.

What can she possibly teach you, twenty seven names for tears?

My house is modern, but I like my writing room to be old fashioned. I write on a little wooden secretary desk.

like a kid kicked out of class. humiliated and free.

Darkness coiled between what he wanted them to believe and the self he despised. It only made him more alone. How could you save someone when he didn't let you kno him? What a waste. The beauty he murdered in this place. He could never see what he had, only what he failed to achieve.

But I knew one more thing. That people w ho denied who they were or where they had been were in the greatest danger.

We don't have a unitary society anymore, you know; it's very fragmented. I look up and down my block in Silverlake and there is a different universe in every house.