They wore blouses with buttons down the front that suggested the possibilities of the word <i>undone</i>. These women could be undone; or not. They s… - Margaret Atwood

I tried to visualize my jealousy as a yellowy-brown cloud boiling around inside me, then going out through my nose like smoke and turning into a stone and falling down into the ground. That did work a little. But in my visualization a plant covered with poison berries would grow out of the stone, whether I wanted it to or not.

I am afraid of falling into hopeless despair, over my wasted life, and I am still not sure how it happened.

Thus the time passed. Toby stopped counting it. In any case, time is not a thing that passes, said Pilar: it’s a sea on which you float.