“Once in a while, I smell Clive on my skin and it stops my day. It's a train crossing; I wait to pass. Eventually the lights stop flashing, the barriers lift. I keep moving.”

“Waiting for an angel. Someone to ameliorate. Lift me over difficulties. I stop looking. My angel is me.”

“That moment - to this ...may be years in the way they measure,but it's only one sentence back in my mind - there are so many dayswhen living stops and pulls up and sitsand waits like a train on the rails.I pass the hotel at 8and at 5; there are cats in the alleysand bottles and bums,and I look up at the window and think,I no longer know where you are,and I walk on and wonder wherethe living goeswhen it stops.”

“A bus station is where a bus stops. A train station is where a train stops. On my desk, I have a work station….”

“Something else you should really know about me. When I get nervous, my fingers shake. I’ve noticed this a lot recently. When mother and father argue and their voices are falling around the small family apartment, when their voices are banging against my bedroom door, I can feel my fingers start to move. I tell my fingers to stop and, sometimes, they do. But if I look at my hands closely, once I’ve told them to stop, and I try to focus on keeping them as still as possible, I notice that they are still moving.”

“Once the scent caught me on the street in Greenwich Village. I stopped in my tracks and looked around. Where was it coming from? A shop? The trees? A passerby? I could not tell. I only knew the smell made me cry. I stood on the sidewalk in Greenwich Village as people brushed by, and felt suddenly young and terribly open, as if I were waiting for something. I live in an ocean of smell, and the ocean is my mother.”