RIC: Were you Mirza Ghalib in your last life?

FCL: I’ve been every woman of every lifetime

RIC: What is love to you? Love?

FCL: I look for it, I touched it with the tip of my finger, the tip of my lips, and it escaped me.

RIC: If you had a bakery, what would you sell?

FCL: Your breasts, in brioche, to lick, to chew, to devour.

RIC: Lisbon or Cancun?

FCL: Lisbon, at night, in a bed, no blanket, no pillow, just a sheet that you know will be stained in the morning. Very stained.

RIC: Mozzarella or Burrata?

FCL: Both, with the milk from your breasts

RIC: Please share with us the recipe of your favourite Sri Lankan dish.

FCL: The honey of your lips, the salt of your tears, the iron of your vagina, the sugar of your breasts.

RIC: If you could learn one dance in life, which one would you learn?

FCL: The one where I enter and leave you, in rhythm, the one where you wrap yourself around me, that you tighten around this part of me, in rhythm, where I melt into you, in rhythm.

RIC: If you were not a poet, what would you be?

FCL: The poet’s lover

RIC: What is a soul?

FCL: What I lose when I’m inside you.

RIC: Your views on death.

FCL: The little one is the prettiest. The one, the only.

RIC: If money was not a concern, which is one thing you would have bought for your house?

FCL: I would find your blue sapphire to hang it around your neck, let it be between your two bare breasts, as my only garment, and I would love you for hours.

RIC: In memory of a Sufi patient, please define life in two words. 

FCL: Love me.