When we perfect 3-D copiers and they reproduce tissue, we'll have a million Marilyns walking around with no souls.

Freshly cut Christmas trees smelling of stars and snow and pine resin - inhale deeply and fill your soul with wintry night.

I see myself at crossroads in my life, mapless, lacking bits of knowledge - then, the Moon breaks through, lights up the path before me.

Sunday evenings are heavier than clouds with rain, darker too and often interminable.

Authority is the unmistakeable tone in the voice of a true writer.

I hear the sounds of melting snow outside my window every night and with the first faint scent of spring, I remember life exists

It must be hard when you are a beautiful woman and no one will look at your soul.