Now all the mute objects of my life seem to tell my story, to stretch back in time, if I look closely enough.

The world, a tired performer, offers us another half-assed season.

Her eyes watered and she was a foot taller than any of her sisters, mostly because of the length of her neck which would one day hang from the end of a rope

She lost much of her appetite. At night, an invisible hand kept shaking her awake every few hours. Grief was physiological, a disturbance of the blood. Sometimes a whole minute would pass in nameless dread - the bedside clock ticking, the blue moonlight coating the window like glue - before she`d remember the brutal fact that had caused it.

The Statue of Liberty's gender changed nothing. It was the same here as anywhere: men and their wars.

It was like autumn, looking at her. it was like driving up north to see the colors.

That was the deal basically: catatonia without; frenzy within