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

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.

My hatred gives me strength.

You were my home, Mother. I had no home but you

Dawn tinted the darkness like water ink.

If evil means to be self-motivated, to be the center of one’s own universe, to live on one’s own terms, then every artist, every thinker, every original mind, is evil.

Wasn't that the way it always was? You didn't know, you couldn't tell, you just let it happen... Perhaps they didn't know themselves. Sometimes the line was very fine.