Matrix: A Novel

The winter is a sheet of parchment that the small feet of birds, of vixens, of hares, write upon.

Aging is a constant loss; all the things considered essential in youth prove with time that they are not. Skins are shed, and left at the roadside for the new young to pick up and carry on.

Women act counter to all the laws of submission when they remove themselves from availability.

Visions are not complete until they have been set down and stepped away from, turned this way and that in the hand.

Ritual creates its own catharsis, Marie. Mystical acts create mystical beliefs.