Karen wasn't hard, she was soft, too soft. A soft touch. Her hair was soft, her smile was soft, her voice was soft. She was so soft there was no resistance. Hard things sank into her, they went right through her, and if she made a real effort, out the other side. Then she didn't have to see them or hear them, or even touch them.

Sons branch out, but one woman leads to another.

Touch comes before sight, before speech. It is the first language and the last, and it always tells the truth.

Writing poetry is a state of free float.

I sink down into my body as into a swamp, fenland, where only I know the footing…. I’m a cloud, congealed around a central object, the shape of a pear, which is hard and more real than I am and glows red within its translucent wrapping. Inside it is a space, huge as the sky at night and dark and curved like that, though black-red rather than black.

Short forms are returning online. Interactivity is coming back; it was always there in oral storytelling.

There are some virtues to not saying what you think all the time.