I write about sex because often it feels like the most important thing in the world.

When pieces of work speak to us in a way that feels as if they were made just for us, those become our private worlds that we return to.

I don't know how to answer. I know what I think, but words in the head are like voices underwater. They are distorted.

Shuttered like a fan no-one suspects your shoulder blades of wings.

I learned capacity for self-reflection very early, finding it through interior monologues that books are so good at and that visual media is so bad at because it's so boring - nothing's happening. In a book, you can be inside the narrator's head for 50 pages, and nothing needs to happen. Then you learn to be inside your own head without something needing to happen. It's a very good antidote to a crazy, restless, "what's next?" culture - that you can just be in your own head and nothing is happening except that this is a rich place. I love that.

Words are the part of silence that can be spoken.

The body can endure compromise and the mind can be seduced by it. Only the heart protests. The heart. Carbon-based primitive in a silicon world.