“The snow has quietness in it; no songs,no smells, no shouts or traffic.When I speakmy own voice shocks me.”

“God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.”

“Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me.”

“I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.”

“She suffers according to the digitsof my hate. I hear the filamentsof alabaster. I would lie downwith them and lift my madnessoff like a wig. I would lieoutside in a room of wooland let the snow cover me.Paris white or flake whiteor argentine, all in the washbasinof my mouth, calling “Oh.”I am empty. I am witless.Death is here. There is noother settlement.”

“I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.”

“And tonight our skin, our bones,that have survived our fathers,will meet, delicate in the hold,fastened together in an intricate lock.Then one of us will shout,"My need is more desperate!" andI will eat you slowly with kisseseven though the killer in youhas gotten out.”