It's A Responsibility Of The Writer To

We Die Containing A Richness Of Lovers And Tribes, Tastes We Have Swallowed, Bodies We Have Plunged Into And Swum Up As If Rivers Of Wisdom, Characters We Have Climbed Into As If Trees, Fears We Have Hidden In As If Caves. I Wish For All This To Be Marked On By Body When I Am Dead. I Believe In Such Cartography - To Be Marked By Nature, Not Just To Label Ourselves On A Map Like The Names Of Rich Men And Women On Buildings. We Are Communal Histories, Communal Books. We Are Not Owned Or Monogamous In Our Taste Or Experience.

... The Desert, Where There Is The Communal Book Of Moonlight. We Were Among The Rumour Of Wells. In The Palace Of Winds.

He Has Been Disassembled By Her. And If She Has Brought Him To This, What Has He Brought Her To?

So Many Nurses Had Turned Into Emotionally Disturbed Handmaidens Of The War, In Their Yellow-and-crimson Uniforms With Bone Buttons.

A Blind Lover, Don't Know What I Love Till I Write It Out