A regular wind-up toy world this is, I think. Once a day the wind-up bird has to come and wind the springs of this world. Alone in this fun house, only I grow old, a pale softball of death swelling inside me. Yet even as I sleep somewhere between Saturn and Uranus, wind-up birds everywhere are busy at work fulfilling their appointed rounds.

A person's last moments are an important thing. You can't choose how you're born but you can choose how you die.

If they invent a car that runs on stupid jokes, you could go far.

I'd be smiling and chatting away, and my mind would be floating around somewhere else, like a balloon with a broken string.

It seemed to me that this world has a serious shortage of both logic and kindness.

You might think you made a new world or a new self, but your old self is always gonna be there, just below the surface, and if something happens, it'll stick its head out and say 'Hi.' You don't seem to realize that. You were made somewhere else.

It was as if I were writing letters to hold together the pieces of my crumbling life.