It's in Macbeth: "The devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon." I seldom have occasion to pull it out, but it's ready and waiting!

I want to be held and told my name. I want to be valued, in ways that I am not; I want to be more than valuable. I repeat my former name; remind myself of what I once could do, how others saw me. I want to steal something.

The heart with letters on it shining like a light bulb through the trim hole painted in the chest, art history.

Every utopia - let's just stick with the literary ones - faces the same problem: What do you do with the people who don't fit in?

You aren't sick & unhappy only alive & stuck with it.

If it's a story I'm telling, then I have control over the ending... But if it's a story, even in my head, I must be telling it to someone. You don't tell a story only to yourself. There's always someone else. Even when there is no one.

Your hand is a warm stone I hold between two words.