No tears, please. It's a waste of good suffering.

After all, where can the glorious, the goofy, and the god-like stand shoulder to shoulder?

I never want to be the producer that I too often got.

We’re too much ourselves. Afraid of letting go of what we are, in case we are nothing, and holding on so tight, we lose everything else.

Well, here he was. They could save each other, the way the poets promised lovers should. He was mystery, he was darkness, he was all she had dreamed of. And if she would only free him he would service her - oh yes - until her pleasure reached that threshold that, like all thresholds, was a place where the strong grew stronger, and the weak perished. Pleasure was pain there, and vice versa. And he knew it well enough to call it home.

Never believe your eyes

Words are sexier than flesh.