“She draws patterns on my face / These lines make shapes that can’t replace / the version of me that I hold inside / when lying with you, lying with you, lying with you.”

“Make sure the seaweed lies flat.''Okay.''Leave an inch below the knee.''Okay.''It's got to be loose enough to put a finger in the top.''Sean Kendrick.' I say it emphatically enough that the stallion's ears prick toward me. (...)Sean doesn't appear to be at all apologetic. 'I think you'd better let me do that after all.''You're the one who had me in here in the first place.' I say. 'Now I think it's you who doesn't trust me.''It's not just you,' He replies.I glower at him. 'Well, I'll tell you what. I'll hold him and you wrap. That way, when it's done wrong, there's only yourself to slap. And take your jacket. I'm tired of holding it.”

“I had risked everything, and I had nothing to show for it but my open hand, lying empty and palm up toward the ceiling.”

“And then I opened my eyes and it was just Grace and me - nothing anywhere but Grace and me - she pressing her lips together as though she were keeping my kiss inside her, and me, holding this moment that was as fragile as a bird in my hands.”

“There was nothing particularly special about her, except that she was good with numbers, and very good at lying, and she made her home in between the pages of books.”

“I am alone in the world, and yet not alone enough to make each hour holy. I am lowly in this world, and yet not lowly enough for me to be just a thing to you, dark and shrewd. I want my will and I want to go with my will as it moves towards action. And I want, in those silent, somehow faltering times, to be with someone who knows, or else alone. I want to reflect everything about you, and I never want to be too blind or too ancient to keep your profound wavering image with me. I want to unfold. I don't want to be folded anywhere, because there, where I'm folded, I am a lie.”

“Behind the counter, I slouched on my stool in the sun and sucked up the summer as If I could hold every drop of it inside of me. As the hours crept by, the afternoon sunlight bleached all the books on the shelves to pale, gilded versions of themselfs and warmed the paper and ink indside the covers so that the smell of unread words hung in the air.”