“He's naked," she said in a whisper louder than a yell."He knows," Cyrus said."Does he want a blanket?""Apparently not.”

“Tell me what you want?” His breath was warm against her lips.“I want you.”“How? Give me permission, tell me it’s okay to strip you naked, kiss you wherever the need takes me, and f**k you until you can’t see straight.”“Yes, yes, please, all of that.”

“One minute she was just this woman I worked with, the next, she was this woman I couldn't go an hour without seeing.”

“To the black man, the white man looks and smells like a corpse. To the white man, the black man has the color and odor of shit. Their mutual hatred is based on a reciprocal recognition: the white man hates the black man for exposing that masked and hidden part of himself. The black man hates the white man's need to pull himself up from the earth. The black man sees in the white man's need the blind arrogance of one who thinks himself immortal. But he who brings civilization cannot help but feel immortal. This is why he smells like a corpse: he is constituted by the return of the repressed "remnant of earth," which clings to him as much as to any man.”

“This little pile of shit, heaped here before my door, is mine, and I challenge any to malign its form. This little heap is my thing, my badge, a tangible sign of that which distinguishes me from, or likens me to, my neighbor. It is also what distinguishes him from me. His heap will never be mine. Whether he be friend or foe, this alone will allow me to recognize if we are alike: neat, clean, negligent, disgusting, or obviously rotten.”

“Do you still want this?" she asked in a whisper. "More than I want to breathe," he said in a groan.”

“I hate being alone during autumn know why?because i'm the only person whose watching the leaves to fall”