"When I touch her, my fingers
don't question what she is. My body knows
who she is. The strange thing about
strangers is that they are unknown and
known. There is a pattern to her, a shape I
understand, a private geometry that
numbers mine. She is a maze where I got
lost years ago, and now find the way out.
She is the missing map. She is the place that
I am. She is a stranger. She is the strange
that I am beginning to love.” -Jeanette Winterson,