A ton of Proust isn’t worth an ounce of Ray Bradbury.

The human race sleepwalked to oblivion, thinking only of the corporate logos on it's shroud.

After being bombarded endlessly by road-safety propaganda it was almost a relief to find myself in an actual accident.

I admired anyone who could unsettle people.

Nonetheless, Scranton had travelled in space. He had known the loneliness of separation from all other human beings, he had gazed at the empty perspectives that I myself had seen.

In his mind Vaughan saw the whole world dying in a simultaneous automobile disaster, millions of vehicles hurled together in a terminal congress of spurting loins and engine coolant.

Art exists because reality is neither real nor significant.