In the heat of her hands I thought, This is the campfire that mocks the sun.

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

Do it from the heart or not at all.

I feel in colour, strong tones that I hue down for the comfort of the pastelly inclined. Beige and magnolia and a hint of pink are what the well-decorated heart is wearing; who wants my blood red and vein-blue?

the buddhists say there are 149 ways to god. i'm not looking for god, only for myself, and that is far more complicated.

Tell me the story, Pew. . . . It was a woman. You always say that. There's always a woman somewhere, child; a princess, a witch, a stepmother, a mermaid, a fairy godmother, or one as wicked as she is beautiful, or as beautiful as she is good. Is that the complete list? Then there is the woman you love. Who's she? That's another story.

A homosexual is further away from a woman than a rhinoceros.