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.

The only time I see the truth is when I cross my eyes.

By writing I can live in ways that I could not survive.

Here I am, where I ought to be. A writer must have a place where he or she feels this, the place to love and be irritated with.

We do know that no one gets wise enough to really understand the heart of another, though it is the task of our life to try.

Cold sinks in, there to stay. And people, they'll leave you, sure. There's no return to what was and no way back. There's just emptiness all around, and you in it, like singing up from the bottom of a well, like nothing else, until you harm yourself, until you are a mad dog biting yourself for sympathy. Because there is no relenting.

Every so often something shatters like ice and we are in the river of our existence. We are aware.