Poppies bleed petals of sheer excess. You and I, this sweet battle ground.

There is no God, there is only what you want.

Don't hoard the past. Don't cherish anything. Burn it. The artist is the phoenix who burns to emerge.

Her hatred glittered irresistibly. I could see it, the jewel, it was sapphire, it was the cold lakes of Norway.

I wandered through the stacks, running my hands along the spines of the books on the shelves, they reminded me of cultured or opinionated guests at a wonderful party, whispering to each other.

...The men eyed her with the automatic mix of curiosity, lust, and aesthetic judgment they always gave young women, subject to object, the way you'd stare at an animal. She pretended not to notice. To remind them she was a person was too much effort. Objects bore no guilt.

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