Whenever she thought she could not feel more alone, the universe peeled back another layer of darkness.

I imagined my soul taking in these words like silicated water in the Petrified Forest, turning my wood to patterned agate. I liked it when my mother shaped me this way. I thought clay must feel happy in the good potter's hand.

The phoenix must burn to emerge.

No matter where I was, my compass pointed west. I would always know what time it was in California.

I emitted some civetlike female stink, a distinct perfume of sexual wanting, that he had followed to find me here in the dark.

Only peons made excusses for themselves she taught me. Never apologize, never explain.

How right that the body changed over time, becoming a gallery of scars, a canvas of experience, a testament to life and one's capacity to endure it.