How fickle it is, memory— preferring some days to others, granting first a blue sky, offering next the sound of laughter, swelling our remembrances until a largeness seeps into the grain of things and memory itself becomes billowed and flapping.

— Sonja Livingston

Say a woman is more than the sum of her parts and I'll listen. Say she is more than fruit and blossom and branch, and I'll nod my head yes. But say the body does not want, and I will fall to the floor under the weight of a world that does not need the sweet talk of a heartbeat.

— Sonja Livingston

Those are the facts but not the truth, which does not even speak the same language.

— Sonja Livingston