I would catch sight of some flawless man off in the distance, but as soon as he moved closer I immediately saw he wouldn’t do at all.

God, is this all it is, the ricocheting down the corridor of laughter and tears? Of self-worship and self-loathing? Of glory and disgust?

Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you.

All the heat and fear had purged itself. I felt surprisingly at peace. The bell jar hung suspended a few feet above my head. I was open to the circulating air.

We stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves.

What did my arms do before they held you?

I suppose if I gave myself the chance I could be an alcoholic.