In an uncategorizable dream, she was in a doctor’s office. The doctor had dyed black hair and didn’t use gloves for the pelvic examination. The room was full of rotting food. Then she was home and opening an envelope, and inside the envelope was a check for $100,000. 

“A writing contest is a lottery for dreamers. It only stands to reason that some cynical practices flourish there.”

“The only ones we never killed were the wall geckos. Armed with nothing but silence, the hopeful geckos slithered across the empty spot, across the walls, only searching for their way to the roof.”

The cover of Martin Amis’ Invasion of the Space Invaders: An Addict’s Guide to Battle Tactics, Big Scores, and the Best Machines really sets a tone.

The shape of violence lives invisibly inside of a woman. Now, the narrator is sharing a sliver of that burden with the perpetrator, and they are both wearing it, or are about to, publicly: she as the author; he, as a man with a pseudonym who has willingly submitted to being interviewed by the woman he wronged when she was a girl.”