What is any of this to us? Time is endless and ours. Love and Death are only the games we play in it.

There was no violence, no speed. It moved to the rhythm of an elder dance, putting all the rituals of the world to shame. Black, silver, gold and moon-opal, night and sea, fire, earth, air and water.

Im writing what comes into my head, or through me, or from somewhere else, and it is the most extraordinary, exciting thing. I love it, and Im very greedy, and I really enjoy it!

Maidens who stay maidens turn into saints. Old women become sorceresses. Tough jobs, both of these.

The soul is a magician. Only living flesh hampers it.

Are not all loves secretly the same? A hundred flowers sprung from a single root.

Madness. I did not get myself born to die. I have better things to do.