here, here is my dark world. you carry it for a change. im out

A novel is like a dream in which everyone is you. They’re all parts of yourself.

The sound of her laughter was sticky as sap, the smell of night-blooming jasmine soft as a milk bath.

The best you'll ever do is to understand yourself, know what it is that you want, and not let the cattle stand in your way.

I thought clay must feel happy in the good potter's hand.

She was sitting cross-legged on her bed in her white kimono, writing in a notebook with an ink pen she dipped in a bottle. 'Never let a man stay the night,' she told me. 'Dawn has a way of casting a pall on any night magic.' The night magic sounded lovely. Someday I would have lovers and write a poem after.

Beauty was empty as a gourd, vain as a parakeet. But it had power. It smelled of musk and oranges and made you close your eyes in a prayer.