In my dreams of this city I am always lost.

I want everything back, the way it was. But there is no point to it, this wanting.

Don't let the bastards grind you down. I repeat this to myself but it conveys nothing. You might as well say, Don't let there be air; or Don't be. I suppose you could say that.

I wanted to forget the past, but it refused to forget me; it waited for sleep, then cornered me.

I did not know how to paint or even what to paint, but I knew I had to begin.

The farther north you go, the fewer fruits and vegetables there are. What kind of apple trees do you suggest the Inuit get their apples from? And how much oil is expended transporting such things out there? It's an equation.

I felt white, drained of blood, cared for, purified. Peaceful.