The pen between my fingers is sensuous, alive almost, I can feel its power, the power of the words it contains. Pen Is Envy [...]

But who can remember pain, once it's over? All that remains of it is a shadow, not in the mind even, in the flesh. Pain marks you, but too deep to see. Out of sight, out of mind.

There is more than one kind of freedom [...] Freedom to and freedom from. In the days of anarchy, it was freedom to. Now you ar being given freedom from.

Nobody's heart is perfect.