Things between us were dissolving like an ice cub in a glass: the smaller it got, the faster it disappeared.

If you look at most womens writing, women writers will describe women differently from the way male writers describe women. The details that go into a woman writers description of a female character are, perhaps, a little more judgmental. Theyre looking for certain things, because they know what women do to look a certain way.

Perhaps she drives men away. Perhaps, without even being able to help herself, she just puts men into her ill-tempered car and drives them off: to quarries, dumps, small anonymous bodies of water.

An agony. The exit like the entrance - but reserved. A palindrome: gut-tug.

I would never understand photography, the sneaky, murderous taxidermy of it.

Love drains you, takes with it much of your blood sugar and water weight. You are like a house slowly losing its electricity, the fans slowing, the lights dimming and flickering; the clocks stop and go and stop.

This was my modest dream come true: unambitious flight. The kind that never even got high enough for a view.