Paper isn’t important. It’s the words on them that are important.

I don't know why they are all so eager to be remembered. What good will it do them? There are some things that should be forgotten by everyone, and never spoken of again.

His mouth is on me, his hands, I can't wait and he's moving, already, love, it's been so long, I'm alive in my skin, again, arms around him, falling and water softly everywhere, never-ending.

For the children with their greedy little mouths represent the future, which like time itself will devour all now alive.

You can only be jealous of someone who has something you think you ought to have yourself.

You can mean more than one. You can mean thousands. I'm not in any immediate danger, I'll say to you. I'll pretend you can hear me. But it's no good, because I know you can't.

Perhaps I write for no one. Perhaps for the same person children are writing for when they scrawl their names in the snow.