When they're gone out of his head, these words, they'll be gone, everywhere, forever. As if they had never been.

The truth, it seems, is not just what you find when you open a door: it is itself a door, which the poet is always on the verge of going through.

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.

When demons are required someone will always be found to supply the part, and whether you step forward or are pushed is all the same in the end.

You can wet the rim of a glass and run your finger around the rim and it will make a sound. This is what I feel like: this sound of glass. I feel like the word shatter. I want to be with someone.

The responsible treatment of this particular Ring of Power is not necessarily to toss it into the Cracks of Doom. But we have to come up with something rather quickly, or what we'll get is the Land of Mordor.

You're never going to kill storytelling, because it's built into the human plan. We come with it.