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

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

I wanted to hear what she was saying. I wanted to smell that burnt midnight again, I wanted to feel that wind. It was a secret wanting, like a song I couldn't stop humming, or loving someone I could never have. No matter where I went, my compass pointed west. I would always know what time it was in California.

I'm always looking for something new and interesting to say. And it can't be something I'm directly experiencing.

I think we're starved for a life of the senses. We're in the garage, we're in the car, we drive to work, we're in a windowless cubicle that's gray and beige. In a way, it's funny that we consider ourselves an advanced culture, because people who live in so-called primitive environments still enjoy the richness of the smells, colors, and sounds of our world. We all crave that.

Only peons made excusses for themselves she taught me. Never apologize, never explain.

The word rattled in my head like rocks in an oatmeal box.