"You had crept along my blood vessels through the wound, and the blood that circulates returns to the heart.

You circulated me, you made me blush like a girl in the hoop of your hands. You were in my arteries and my lymph, you were the colour just under my skin, and if I cut myself, it was you I bled. Red Isolde, alive on my fingers, and always the force of blood pushing you back to my heart."

[From Lighthousekeeping by Jeanette Winterson, p.181]