But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defensless that I couldn't do it. It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn't in that skin or the thin blue pulse that jumped under my thumb, but somewhere else, deeper, more secret, and a whole lot harder to get.

I inhabit the wax image of myself, a doll's body. Sickness begins here; I am a dartboard for witches.

I collect men with interesting names.

The more hopeless you were, the further away they hid you.

I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here.

There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.

I think I am worthwhile just because I have optical nerves and can try to put down what they perceive. What a fool!