I want, I don’t want. How can one live with such a heart?

Some cleric putting a match to her. /Neither of them looks happy about it. /Once lit, she'll burn like a book, /like a book that was ever finished, /like a locked-up library.

Her glass wings are gone.

This is what I miss, Cordelia: not something that’s gone, but something that will never happen. Two old women giggling over their tea.

The animals have no need for speech, why talk when you are a word.

There's the story, then there's the real story, then there's the story of how the story came to be told. Then there's what you leave out of the story. Which is part of the story too.

Maybe the life I think I'm living is a paranoid delusion...Sanity is a valuable possession; I hoard it the way people once hoarded money. I save it, so I will have enough, when the time comes.