I'm too conceited for therapy.

Pain revealed the paltry dimensions of love. The paltry dimensions of everything, in fact, except pain.

Falling in love makes the unknown known. Falling out of love reverses the process.

Literature is humanity's broad-minded alter-ego, with room in its heart for monsters, even for you. It's humanity without the judgement.

Words betrayed her: beautiful butterflies in her mind; dead moths when she opened her mouth for their release into the world.

Time, you'll be pleased to know--and since one must start somewhere--was created in creation. The question What was there before creation? is meaningless. Time is a property of creation, therefore before creation there was no before creation.

When I see gurgling retarded children (that's God's doing, by the way, not mine) happily styling their hair with their own stinking mards, I think of Adam in those pre-marital days. I know he's your great-to-the-nth-degree-granddad and all - but I'm afraid he was rather an imbecile.