When she bleeds the smells I know change colour. There is iron in her soul on those days. She smells like a gun.

Pain is very often a maimed creature without a mouth.

Capacity for love in its higher forms seems to be peculiarly human although even in humans it is still peculiar.

Words like passion and ecstasy, we learn them but they stay flat on the page. Sometimes we try to turn them over, find out what's on the other side, and everyone has a story to tell os a woman or a brothel or an opium night or a war. We fear it. We fear passion and laugh at too much love and those who love too much.

Not much touches us, but we long to be touched. We lie awake at night willing the darkness to part and show us a vision.

I like to look at how people work together when they are put into stressful situations, when life stops being cozy.

Strange to dream in the right shape and build in the wrong shape, but maybe that is what we do every day, never believing that a dream could tell the truth.