Although she was giddy with exhaustion, sleep was a lover who refused to be touched.

At every moment, each instrument knew what to play. Its little bit. But none could see the whole thing like this, all at once, only its own part. Just like life. Each person was like a line of music, but nobody knew what the symphony sounded like. Only the conductor had the whole score.

Loneliness is the human condition. Cultivate it. The way it tunnels into you allows your soul room to grow.

I use my fiction to explore my own unconscious issues. I usually don't even know what's going on with me until I'm writing.

I hated labels anyway. People didn't fit in slots--prostitute, housewife, saint--like sorting the mail. We were so mutable, fluid with fear and desire, ideals and angles, changeable as water.

The night crackled ... Everything had turned to static electricity in the heat. I combed my hair to watch the sparks fly from the ends.

She should think about her own soul, what she was going to do with this funky tattered pond dank item. Dark and stained, a ruined thing.