I see God now as an unimaginative writer of popular fictions, someone who builds stories around sadistic and graceless plots, narratives that exist only to express His terror of a woman's power to choose who and how to love, to redefine love as she sees fit, not as God thinks it ought to be. The author is unworthy of His own characters.

Pick a sin we can both live with, is what I ask.

I will be waiting by candlelight in our tree house of the mind.

It bewildered Ig, the idea that a person could not be interested in music. It was like not being interested in happiness.

We'll have freedom, love and health/When the grand red flag is flying, In the Workers' Commonwealth.

There's only room for one hero in this story-and everyone knows the devil doesn't get to be the good guy.

Love requires Context.