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

What happens when you let an unsatisfactory present go on long enough? It becomes your entire history.

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.

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

It's impossible to write about Native life without humor-that's how people maintain sanity.

I prefer to have some beliefs that don't make logical sense.

Here is the most telling fact: you wish to possess me.
 Here is another fact: I loved you and let you think you could.