You occupied my space. But because you were not in my present, when I looked into my future I saw . . . nothing. Isn't that sad? And stupid?

I have a curious background for someone who turns out to be a writer.

In that moonlit hour, I acquired a sense of the otherness of things. I liked the feeling the moonlight gave me, as if it wasn't the opposite of day, but its underside, its private side, when the fabulous purred on my snow-white sheet like some dark cat come in from the desert.

Everybody has an angel hiding inside. When you die, your angel comes out. You can die, but not your angel. Your angel never dies.

I’m not my name. My name is something I wear, like a shirt. It gets worn. I outgrow it, I change it.

She laughed, and the desert sang.

This was the ghetto: where children grow down instead of up.