It's not that he was going nowhere, it's that he'd already arrived.

We have no home, she told me. I am your home.

purification in fire. public cremation

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

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

A cliche is like a coin that has been handled too much. Once language has been overly handled, it no longer leaves a clear imprint.

What was beauty unless you intended to use it, like a hammer, or a key? It was just something for other people to use and admire, or envy, despise. To nail their dreams onto like a picture hanger on a blank wall. And so many girls saying, use me, dream me.