They dream of men with gentle hands, eloquent with tenderness, fingers that brushed along a cheek, that outlined open lips in the lovers' braille. Hands that sculpted sweetness from sullen flesh, that traced breast and ignited hips, opening, kneading. Flesh becomes bread in the heat of those hands, braided and rising.

I felt suddenly cruel, like I´d told dmall children there was no tooth fairy, that it was just their Mom sneaking into their room after they went to bed.

A cliche is everything you've ever heard of.

What can I say about life? Do I praise it for letting you live, or damn it for allowing the rest?

How easy I was. Like a limpet I attached myself to anything, anyone who showed me the least attention.

Once you get below the floor of our personal identities, we're all connected. Perhaps that's why we can move into others' lives.

Being in the library is so addictive for me that I really have to exercise self-control so I can get some writing done at home.