I believe in saying the truth, coming out with it cold, shocking if necessary, not disguising it.

What have we to offer the world beside the superabundant loot which we recklessly plunder from the earth under the maniacal delusion that this insane activity represents progress and enlightenment?

The world itself is pregnant with failure, is the perfect manifestation of imperfection, of the consciousness of failure.

For a hundred years or more the world, our world, has been dying. And not one man, in these last hundred years or so, has been crazy enough to put a bomb up the asshole of creation and set it off. The world is rotting away, dying piecemeal. But it needs the coup de grace, it needs to be blown to smithereens. Not one of us is intact, and yet we have in us all the continents and the seas between the continents and the birds of the air. We are going to put it down ― the evolution of this world which has died but which has not been buried.

The prisoner is not the one who has commited a crime, but the one who clings to his crime and lives it over and over.

It is almost banal to say so yet it needs to be stressed continually: all is creation, all is change, all is flux, all is metamorphosis.

We are dancing in the hollow of nothingness. We are one flesh, but separated like stars.