...there are two kinds of writing: the one you write and the one that writes you.

The journey is not linear, it is always back and forth, denying the calendar, the wrinkles and lines of the body.

It doesn't have to be like that but mostly it is.

Where did love begin?What human being looked at another and saw in their face the forests and the sea? Was there a day, exhausted and weary,dragging home food, arms cut and scarred, that you saw yellow flowers and, not knowing what you did, picked them because I love you? In the fossil record of our existence, there is no trace of love. You cannot find it held in the earth's crust, waiting to be discovered. The long bones of our ancestors show nothing of their hearts.

I realised something important: whatever is on the outside can be taken away at any time. Only what is inside you is safe.

It is helpful for a woman artist not to have a husband.

Hopeless heart that thrives on paradox; that longs for the beloved and is secretly relieved when the beloved is not there.