It gets cold in the desert at night, particularly up in the mountains; the stars hammer on the rock and strike frost.

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

Writing is writing, and stories are stories. Perhaps the only true genres are fiction and nonfiction. And even there, who can be sure?

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

The humble were the elect of God. Did not the priests teach so, in their gemmed, kingly robes, from their towering pulpits?

I will draw you back to me. You shall see. By a chain of stars.

She could not mourn. She could no longer weep grasping the essence of annihilation, she wished only to cease, to be no more, as if sunk in some profound sleep devoid of wakening.