This is the place where bodies are their own signs. It is the home of Friday.

Each body has its art...

For male and female alike, the bodies of the other sex are messages signaling what we must do — they are glowing signifiers of our own necessities.

whatever else we are or may pretend to be, we are certainly our bodies

But this is not a place of words. Each syllable, as it comes out, is caught and filled with water and diffused. This is a place where bodies have their own signs. It is the home of Friday.

All bodies together, and each by itself, give off to the surrounding air an infinite number of images which are all-pervading and each complete, each conveying the nature, colour and form of the body which produces it.

It is convention alone which persuades me that I am simply this body bounded by a skin in space, and by birth and death in time.

My body is the intention. My body is the event. My body is the result.

Our bodies were trash.
We leave them on the shore.

We are only here for a little while, and our bodies belong to ourselves and no one else.

It's astounding the first time you realize that a stranger has a body - the realization that he has a body makes him a stranger. It means that you have a body, too. You will live with this forever, and it will spell out the language of your life.

Alone, we live in our bodies as a question rather than a statement.

Yes, the bleeding heart was something else again. A gruesome symbol on a vivarium floor. Fingers that broke without their owner noticing. An ink drawing appearing from nowhere on a dossier cover, like a signature. A signature.

With my tattoos, I get to say, these are choices I make for my body, with full-throated consent. This is how I mark myself. This is how I take my body back.