Consciousness, unprovable by scientific standards, is forever, then, the impossible phantom in the predictable biologic machine, and your every thought a genuine supernatural event. Your every thought is a ghost, dancing.

It seems strange that my life should end in such a terrible place, but for three years I had roses, and apologized to no one.

I am brother to dragons, and companion to owls. My skin is black upon me, and my bones are burned with heat.

I don’t distinguish between magic and art. When I got into magic, I realised I had been doing it all along, ever since I wrote my first pathetic story or poem when I was twelve or whatever. This has all been my magic, my way of dealing with it.

Yes, of course, the whole idea is utterly inane, but to let its predictable inanities blind you to its truly fabulous and breathtaking aspects is to do both oneself and the genre a disservice.

Does the human heart know chasms so abysmal?

It's cold and it's mean spirited and I don't like it here anymore.