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.

Just because a poet said something didn’t mean it was true, only that it sounded good.

To make films, you have to have boundless energy; you have to work and play with others really, really well, and I'm really a more contemplative kind of person. I like to sit at home and think, a lot.

The word rattled in my head like rocks in an oatmeal box.

As an artist, you can never get what you want. What you do never approaches what you want it to be.

I was always mortified.Didn't they know they were tying thier mothers to the ground? Weren't chains ashamed of their prisoners?

I use my fiction to explore my own unconscious issues. I usually don't even know what's going on with me until I'm writing.