I have always kept notebooks and I go back to them over and over. They are my compost pile of ideas.

In order to purify yourself, you have to understand yourself, Father Trais went on. Everything out in the world is also in you. Good, bad, evil, perfection, death, everything. So we study our souls.

We all got holes in our lives. Nobody dies in a perfect garment.

We have these earthly bodies. We don't know what they want. Half the time, we pretend they are under our mental thumb, but that is the illusion of the healthy and the protected. Of sedate lovers. For the body has emotions it conceives and carries through without concern for anyone or anything else. Love is one of those, I guess. Going back to something very old knit into the brain as we were growing. Hopeless. Scorching. Ordinary.

I spend my time dwelling on revenge and try to deal with the monsters crawling out of the ashes.

You know, some people fall right through the hole in their lives. Its invisible, but they come to it after time, never knowing where.

Love. The black hook. The spear singing through the mind.