Every Night I Cut Out My Heart.

If She Were A Writer She Would Collect Her Pencils And Notebooks And Favourite Cat And Write In Bed. Strangers And Lovers Would Never Get Past The Locked Door.

Sometimes When She Is Able To Spend The Night With Him They Are Wakened By The Three Minarets Of The City Beginning Their Prayers Before Dawn. He Walks With Her Through The Indigo Markets That Lie Between South Cairo And Her Home. The Beautiful Songs Of Faith Enter The Air Like Arrows, One Minaret Answering Another, As If Passing On A Rumor Of The Two Of Them As They Walk Through The Cold Morning Air, The Smell Of Charcoal And Hemp Already Making The Air Profound. Sinners In A Holy City.

Kirpal's Left Hand Swoops Down And Catches The Dropped Fork An Inch From The Floor And Gently Passes It Into The Fingers Of His Daughter, A Wrinkle At The Edge Of His Eyes Behind His Spectacles.

Jung Was Absolutely Right About One Thing. We Are Occupied By Gods. The Mistake Is To Identify With The God Occupying You.

She Had Always Wanted Words, She Loved Them; Grew Up On Them. Words Gave Her Clarity, Brought Reason, Shape.