... the desert, where there is the communal book of moonlight. We were among the rumour of wells. In the palace of winds.

If she were a writer she would collect her pencils and notebooks and favourite cat and write in bed. Strangers and lovers would never get past the locked door.

I promised to tell you how one falls in love.

We are expanded by tears, we are told, not reduced by them.

Some events take a lifetime to reveal their damage and influence.

Nowadays he doesn't think of his wife, though he knows he can turn around and evoke every move of her, describe any aspect of her, the weigh of her wrist on his heart during the night.

Everyone has to scratch on walls somewhere or they go crazy