Once, I was a master at recycling leftovers. Now I cultivate the art of simmering memories.

I need to feel strongly, to love and admire, just as desperately as I need to breathe.

We thread our way through a moving forest of ice-cream cones and crimson thighs.

Does it take the harsh light of disaster to show a person’s true nature?

If I must drool, I may as well drool on cashmere.

Does the cosmos contain keys for opening my diving bell? A subway line with no terminus? A currency strong enough to buy my freedom back? We must keep looking.

Once, I was a master at recycling leftovers. Now I cultivate the art of simmering memories.