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It is a chunk of time – a life-morphing period of various places, lovers, dreams (realized and crushed). Looking back over them, they seem to me like passing thoughts. Like
small nuances that loomed so large in my mind. There is more where they
came from, and although the collection is so small, there could
probably be less. I think, as I see it now, they are the passing
thoughts of a woman floundering between desire and the mundane. A woman
with no thick charcoal outline to define her, just edges that pulsate
from moment to moment. Then again, she is not unlike all women.

the book can be viewed through:

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