“Now all the women after, are her lovers and will praise her with gifts. With their sacred rot, their bodies will mingle in the making of new soil.”

“She’d thought she could drive so fast in that sleek yellow car that she’d outstrip everything else, make the world a blur. But the world was still there, steam rising from the long sleek hood, the car stopped dead forever.”

“Nearing thirty, we’re still children who see only metaphors. We’re pilgrims who follow the glow, our minds the candles burning in a tin box, all wax and flames.”

“She made me sit next to her, arms shaved thoroughly, her skin covered in razor burns. ‘We’ll get another one.’”

I suppose in every discipline, the threat of artistic integrity being tainted by money is inescapable. I’ve been thinking about this alongside something…about how the imagination is not free, and there is no version of it that exists in a vacuum, untouched by the hierarchical structures of society.

“Being over 70 is like being engaged in a war. All our friends are going or gone and we survive amongst the dead and the dying as on a battlefield.”