If we were all on trial for our thoughts, we would all be hanged.

The alcohol smell is on my fingers, cold and remote, piercing like a steel pin going in. It smells like white enamel basins. When I look up at the stars in the nighttime, cold and white and sharp, I think they must smell like that.

You want the truth, of course. You want me to put two and two together. But two and two doesn’t necessarily get you the truth. Two and two equals a voice outside the window. Two and two equals the wind. The living bird is not its labeled bones.

I write as if I've lived a lot of things I haven't lived.

Where do the words go when we have said them?

expectation isn't the same as desire

I would rather dance as a ballerina, though faultily, than as a flawless clown.