“I woke to the sound of rain.”

She stared at her reflection in the glossed shop windows as if to make sure, moment by moment, that she continued to exist.

It’s a hell of a responsibility to be yourself. It’s much easier to be somebody else or nobody at all.

If the body is a temple, then tattoos are its stained glass windows.

The constant struggle in mature life, I think, is to accept the necessity of tragedy and conflict, and not to try to escape to some falsely simple solution which does not include these more somber complexities.

I am too pure for you or anyone.

One thing, I try to be honest. And what is revealed is often rather hideously unflattering.

I feel terribly vulnerable and ‘not-myself’ when I’m not writing.

The sheets grow heavy as a lecher’s kiss.

My mother said the cure for thinking too much about yourself was helping somebody who was worse off than you.

I am not cruel, only truthful.

I write only because There is a voice within me That will not be still.

I talk to God but the sky is empty.

Sometimes I feel like I’m not solid. I’m hollow. There’s nothing behind my eyes. I’m a negative of a person. All I want is blackness, blackness and silence.

Compared with me, a tree is immortal.

I dream too much, work too little.

I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.

Contrary to the general belief about photography, you don’t need bright sunlight: the best moodiest pictures are taken in the dim light of almost dusk, or of rainy days.

And in this moment, like a swift intake of breath, the rain came.

After there is great trouble among mankind, a greater one is prepared. The great mover of the universe will renew time, rain, blood, thirst, famine, steel weapons and disease. In the heavens, a fire seen.

Every storm started with just a little drizzling.

People who feel like sunshine have walked more in the rain than basked in the sun.

Trees bear fruits only to be eaten by others; the fields grown grains, but they are consumed by the world. Cows give milk, but she doesn’t drink it herself – that is left to others. Clouds send rain only to quench the parched earth. In such giving, there is little space for selfishness.

There are holes in the sky Where the rain gets in, But they’re ever so small That’s why rain is thin.

Sometimes she’s the gentle rain caressing you softly. Sometimes she’s the hurricane loving you madly.