Seven to eleven is a huge chunk of life, full of dulling and forgetting. It is fabled that we slowly lose the gift of speech with animals, that birds no longer visit our windowsills to converse. As our eyes grow accustomed to sight they armor themselves against wonder.

A woman watches her body uneasily, as though it were an unreliable ally in the battle for love.

He knew that hair couldn't feel; he kissed her hair.

Music is the emotional life of the most people.

Some say that no one ever leaves Montreal, for that city, like Canada itself, is designed to preserve the past, a past that happened somewhere else.

You were Marlon Brando, I was Steve McQueen, you were K.Y. Jelly, I was Vaseline.

Show me slowly what I only know the limits of Dance me to the end of love