without my wounds, who was I? My scars were my face, my past was my life.

I've been depressed many times in my life. But under it all I'm an optimist.

Reading LOVE JUNKIE is like watching a sleepwalker taking a stroll on a freeway. All you can do is pray. Gorgeously written, piercingly honest.

She would be half a planet away, floating in a turquoise sea, dancing by moonlight to flamenco guitar.

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.

If sinners where so unhappy, why would they prefer their suffering? But now I knew why. Without my wounds, who was I?

How can I shed tears for a man I should never have allowed to touch me in any way?