“You have the lovers,they are nameless, their histories only for each other,and you have the room, the bed, and the windows.Pretend it is a ritual.Unfurl the bed, bury the lovers, blacken the windows,let them live in that house for a generation or two.No one dares disturb them.Visitors in the corridor tip-toe past the long closed door,they listen for sounds, for a moan, for a song:nothing is heard, not even breathing.You know they are not dead,you can feel the presence of their intense love.Your children grow up, they leave you,they have become soldiers and riders.Your mate dies after a life of service.Who knows you? Who remembers you?But in your house a ritual is in progress:It is not finished: it needs more people.One day the door is opened to the lover's chamber.The room has become a dense garden,full of colours, smells, sounds you have never known.The bed is smooth as a wafer of sunlight,in the midst of the garden it stands alone.In the bed the lovers, slowly and deliberately and silently,perform the act of love.Their eyes are closed,as tightly as if heavy coins of flesh lay on them.Their lips are bruised with new and old bruises.Her hair and his beard are hopelessly tangled.When he puts his mouth against her shouldershe is uncertain whether her shoulderhas given or received the kiss.All her flesh is like a mouth.He carries his fingers along her waistand feels his own waist caressed.She holds him closer and his own arms tighten around her.She kisses the hand besider her mouth.It is his hand or her hand, it hardly matters,there are so many more kisses.You stand beside the bed, weeping with happiness,you carefully peel away the sheetsfrom the slow-moving bodies.Your eyes filled with tears, you barely make out the lovers,As you undress you sing out, and your voice is magnificentbecause now you believe it is the first human voiceheard in that room.The garments you let fall grow into vines.You climb into bed and recover the flesh.You close your eyes and allow them to be sewn shut.You create an embrace and fall into it.There is only one moment of pain or doubtas you wonder how many multitudes are lying beside your body,but a mouth kisses and a hand soothes the moment away.”

“You're an idiot," she whispered tearfully.Finally, he opened his eyes and stared up at her; by then, she had moved on to stroking his hair and crying. She sat beside him on the edge of the bed, trying very hard not to bump him or let her cold tears fall on his bare chest and arms.For a moment he blinked at her. Then he asked, "Are you dead too?”

“You didn't think I really liked you? Do you think I really like you now?"He turned toward her, uncertainty in his face."You did go quite a lot of effort to be having this conversation, but... I don't want to read too much of what I hope into that."Val stretched out beside him, resting her head in the crook of his arm. "What do you hope?"He pulled her close, hands careful not to touch her wounds as they wrapped around her. "I hope that you feel for me as I do for you," he said, his voice like a sigh against her throat.And how is that?" she asked, her lips so close to his jaw that she could taste the salt of his skin when she moved them.You carried my heart in your hands tonight," he said. "But I have felt as if you carried it long before that."She smiled and let her eyes drift closed. They lay there together, under the bridge, city lights burning outside the windows like a sky full of falling stars, as they slid off into sleep”

“After the masquerade, if we had found each other, if I had asked it of you, would you have taken me as your lover?”She closed her eyes, but it only made her more acutely aware of his hands moving down to caress her arms. She couldn’t think. Why did he ask? Would a lie be kinder than the truth? Everything was blurring.“Yes.”

“what is the expression which the age demands? the age demands no expression whatever. we have seen photographs of bereaved asian mothers. we are not interested in the agony of your fumbled organs. there is nothing you can show on your face that can match the horror of this time. do not even try. you will only hold yourself up to the scorn of those who have felt things deeply. we have seen newsreels of humans in the extremities of pain and dislocation.you are playing to people who have experienced a catastrophe. this should make you very quiet. speak the words, convey the data, step aside. everyone knows you are in pain. you cannot tell the audience everything you know about love in every line of love you speak. step aside and they will know what you know because you know it already. you have nothing to teach them. you are not more beautiful than they are. you are not wiser.do not shout at them. do not force a dry entry. that is bad sex. if you show the lines of your genitals, then deliver what you promise. and remember that people do not really want an acrobat in bed. what is our need? to be close to the natural man, to be close to the natural woman. do not pretend that you are a beloved singer with a vast loyal audience which has followed the ups and downs of your life to this very moment. the bombs, flame-throwers, and all the shit have destroyed more than just the trees and villages. they have also destroyed the stage. did you think that your profession would escape the general destruction? there is no more stage. there are no more footlights. you are among the people. then be modest. speak the words, convey the data, step aside. be by yourself. be in your own room. do not put yourself on.do not act out words. never act out words. never try to leave the floor when you talk about flying. never close your eyes and jerk your head to one side when you talk about death. do not fix your burning eyes on me when you speak about love. if you want to impress me when you speak about love put your hand in your pocket or under your dress and play with yourself. if ambition and the hunger for applause have driven you to speak about love you should learn how to do it without disgracing yourself or the material.this is an interior landscape. it is inside. it is private. respect the privacy of the material. these pieces were written in silence. the courage of the play is to speak them. the discipline of the play is not to violate them. let the audience feel your love of privacy even though there is no privacy. be good whores. the poem is not a slogan. it cannot advertise you. it cannot promote your reputation for sensitivity. you are students of discipline. do not act out the words. the words die when you act them out, they wither, and we are left with nothing but your ambition.the poem is nothing but information. it is the constitution of the inner country. if you declaim it and blow it up with noble intentions then you are no better than the politicians whom you despise. you are just someone waving a flag and making the cheapest kind of appeal to a kind of emotional patriotism. think of the words as science, not as art. they are a report. you are speaking before a meeting of the explorers' club of the national geographic society. these people know all the risks of mountain climbing. they honour you by taking this for granted. if you rub their faces in it that is an insult to their hospitality. do not work the audience for gasps ans sighs. if you are worthy of gasps and sighs it will not be from your appreciation of the event but from theirs. it will be in the statistics and not the trembling of the voice or the cutting of the air with your hands. it will be in the data and the quiet organization of your presence.avoid the flourish. do not be afraid to be weak. do not be ashamed to be tired. you look good when you're tired. you look like you could go on forever. now come into my arms. you are the image of my beauty.”

“The moment the door closed behind him, Tessa was in Will's arms, her hands locked about his neck. "Oh, by the Angel," she said. "That was mortifying." Will slid his hands into her hair and was kissing her, kissing her eyelids and her cheeks and then her mouth, quickly but with fervor and concentration, as if nothing could be more important. "Listen to you," he said. "You said 'by the angel.' Like a Shadowhunter." He kissed the side of her mouth. "I love you. God, I love you. I waited so long to say it.”

“Day in, day out, you peel the layers back for me. Smart mouth, funny, sweet, wild in bed. Chattin' with bikers like they were insurance brokers. Holdin' my girl's hand, givin' her strength when her Mom's bein' a bitch. Keepin' your chin up when your people show in the middle of a full blown drama. But so fuckin' vulnerable, you're scared shitless of livin' life.""You don't know me, Tack."His head came up and his eyes pierced mine. "I know you, Tyra.""You don't.""Life's a roller coaster. Best damn ride in the park. You don't close your eyes, hold on and wait for it to be over, babe. You keep your eyes open, lift your hands straight up in the air and enjoy the ride for as long as it lasts.”