Although she was giddy with exhaustion, sleep was a lover who refused to be touched.
The sound of her laughter was sticky as sap, the smell of night-blooming jasmine soft as a milk bath.
How vast was a human being's capacity for suffering. The only thing you could do was stand in awe of it. It wasn't a question of survival at all. It was the fullness of it, how much could you hold, how much could you care.
She was not used to being cruel, but he had taught her how.
without my wounds, who was I? My scars were my face, my past was my life.
The stupid things you say in the rain, that can't ever be washed away.