This book is like fragments, sketches, outlines of a love that runs rivulets and deep canyons through a red, red, life.

I fell in love with Herakles. I had my heart torn out with Geryon. Who wouldn’t? Who wouldn’t want to see that volcano with him, who wouldn’t go to Buenos Aires to wrap yourself in echoes of that love, try to pick up scraps like torn fabric and sew it back together, and dive, and dive, and share the secret no one ever tells?