The wonder to me is not that she made it through at all but that she made it through so relatively intact, so vibrant. So free of bitterness and so empty of resentment.

Comfort is beauty muted by heroin. Sadness is beauty drained by lack of it.

What passes relentlessly through the years is blood, and time; all the bitterness or warmth along the way is almost incidental. Even blood gets forgotten eventually, bleached into myth which are bleached of all colour into ashes of myth.

Some people are attracted to sickness, to the kind of madness where sparks fly off the head, to the incoherence of despair, masked by nervous energy, which winds up looking like bewildered joy.

If time stood still, and we could choose the time, the best time, then love without pain would be all I know.

The very concept of solid ground is a myth. The galaxy itself is adrift.

Drought brings out the worst in us and it's easy to hate your fellow human beings.