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I can imagine her memories of the novel, or, more likely, of who she was and how she felt when reading it.

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The receding perspective of my past smothers my present. Remembering is the malignancy that feasts on my now.

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Memory chooses to preserve what desire cannot hope to sustain.

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I told her I was not sure I could bear living with memories, she said, Look up at the stars, look, they are not there, what you see is the memory of w...more

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I want a God that makes me twirl.' I jumped off the couch. I untucked and unbuttoned my shirt so it would flow like a robe. 'Like this. I can do this ...more