So much wanting and longing, clutching, desiring, passion and hatred and terrible need. Here, death was suitable, there was room for it, the grip of life's relentless urges slackened, replaced by this icy simplicity. This wasnt her death. It was his. That was the sad and honest truth. Though it would stay with her, it would be more like a black onyx heart on a silver chain, worn privately, under her clothes, close to her body, all her life. The guilt, the beauty, everything. It wasnt over, it had only begun. Well ok then, Okay.

Never apologize. Never explain.

I was always mortified.Didn't they know they were tying thier mothers to the ground? Weren't chains ashamed of their prisoners?

In our exterior life, we can be only one person. But in our imagination, we can be anyone, anywhere.

her scruffy innoscense to impregnate with his dreams. reason was seductive, it gave the appearance of truth

I took the volume to a table, opened its soft, ivory pages... and fell into it as into a pool during dry season.

I closed my eyes to watch tiny dancers like jeweled birds cross the dark screen of my eyelids.