Those Are The Voices Of

Stars On Our Door, Stars In Our Eyes, Stars Exploding In The Bits Of Our Brains Where The Common Sense Should Have Been

Love Is Desire Sustained By Unfulfilment.

Just Because We're Sisters Under The Skin Doesn't Mean We've Got Much In Common.

Nothing Is A Matter Of Life And Death Except Life And Death.

And, Oh God, In My Misspent Youth As A Housewife, I, Too, Used To Bake Bread, In Those Hectic And Desolating Days Just Prior To The Woman's Movement, When Middle-class Women Were Supposed To Be Wonderful Wives And Mothers, Gracious Hostesses.... I Used To Feel So Womanly When I Was Baking My Filthy Bread.