Books are mirrors: you only see in them what you already have inside you.
What if women had minstrel cycles instead of menstrual cycles? You’d just have a guy with a lute follow you around for a week every month and play you songs constantly?
The only obsession everyone wants: ‘love.’ People think that in falling in love they make themselves whole? The Platonic union of souls? I think otherwise. I think you’re whole before you begin. And the love fractures you. You’re whole, and then you’re cracked open.