People cry at weddings for the same reason they cry at happy endings: because they so desperately want to believe in something they know is not credible.

I see that there will be no end to imperfection, or to doing things the wrong way. Even if you grow up, no matter how hard you scrub, whatever you do, there will always be some other stain or spot on your face or stupid act, somebody frowning.

Something is unfolding, being revealed to me. I see that there's a whole world of of girls and their doings that has been unknown to me, and that I can be part of without making any effort at all. I don't have to keep up with anyone, run as fast, aim as well, make loud explosive noises, decode messages, die on cue. I don't have to think about whether I do these things well, as well as a boy. All I have to do is sit on the floor and cut frying pans our of the Eaton's Catalogue with embroidery scissors, and say I've done it badly.

We are very short on organs, and the pig solution is probably a lot better than the human clone solution - though maybe not for the pigs.

In the evenings there's been thunder, a distant bumping and stumbling, like God on a sullen binge.

You can think clearly only with your clothes on.

To take that risk, to offer life and remain alive, open yourself like this and become whole.