The revolutionary woman knows the world she seeks to overthrow is precisely one in which love between equal human beings is well nigh impossible. We are still part of the ironical working-out of this, our own cruel contradiction. One of the most compelling facts which can unite women and make us act is the overwhelming indignity or bitter hurt of being regarded as simply __he other_, __n object_, __ommodity_, __hing_. We act directly from a consciousness of the impossibility of loving or being loved without distortion. But we must still demand now the preconditions of what is impossible at the moment. It is a most disturbing dialectic, our praxis of pain.

Max?' he asked.'Yeah?''...What are you doing?''Shooting people.

It was her turn to hold him up.

Seeing you with that guy tonight made me nuts, because every bone in my body says you__e mine.

The man was potent to her system, her very own drug.

For what it__ worth___e rose from his seat, moved around the table and bent over her, whispering in her ear as he pressed a kiss to her cheek_ __ like you better in a pair of worn jeans, and I think you deserve someone who appreciates what he__ got. Not someone out to have a good time.