I Spend My Time Dwelling On Revenge

We Are Conjured Voiceless Out Of Nothing And Must Return To An Unknowing State. What Happens In Between Is An Uncontrolled Dance, And What We Ask For In Love Is No More Than A Momentary Chance To Get The Steps Right, To Move In Harmony Until The Music Stops.

She Had Always Been A Reader… But Now She Was Obsessed. Since Her Discovery Of The Book Hoard Downstairs From Her Job, She’d Been Caught Up In One Such Collection Of People And Their Doings After The Next…the Pleasure Of This Sort Of Life – Bookish, She Supposed It Might Be Called, A Reading Life – Had Made Her Isolation Into A Rich And Even Subversive Thing. She Inhabited One Consoling Or Horrifying Persona After Another…that She Was Childless And Husbandless And Poor Meant Less Once She Picked Up A Book. Her Mistakes Disappeared Into It. She Lived With An Invented Force.

I Prefer To Have Some Beliefs That Don't Make Logical Sense.

Old Love, Middle Love, The Kind Of Love That Knows Itself And Knows That Nothing Lasts, Is A Desperate Shared Wildness.

By Writing I Can Live In Ways That I Could Not Survive.