The Job Of The Writer Is To

The Tunnels Of Our Lives Connect, Coming To Daylight At The Oddest Moments, And Then Plunge Us Into The Dark Again. We Return To The Lives Of Those Who Have Gone Before Us, A Perplexing Möbius Strip Until We Come Home, Eventually, To Ourselves.

The City Was Bigger Than Its Buildings, Bigger Than Its Inhabitants Too. It Had Its Own Nuances. It Accepted Whatever Came Its Way, The Crime And The Violence And The Little Shocks Of Good That Crawled Out From Underneath The Everyday.

The Thing About Love Is That We Come Alive In Bodies Not Our Own.

There's A Part Of Me That Thinks Perhaps We Go On Existing In A Place Even After We've Left It.

She's Always Thought That One Of The Beauties Of New York Is That You Can Be From Anywhere And Within Moments Of Landing Its Yours.