But what if you discover that the price of purpose is to render invisible so many other things?

When we wake, it is because something, some event, some pinprick even, disturbs the edges of what we’ve taken as reality.

I always try to be alert to the potential for repetition, for a decaying orbit with regard to my use of technique, etc.

I find myself in this bizarre position in which everything I write and talk about is pretty much about this issue, the environment. It feels a little too comfortable, because at the end of the day I can rationalize that I'm doing my share. I don't know if I actually am, I don't know if I should be more of an activist than I am. But at the end of the day, everybody needs to do those things that they're most likely to continue doing, and that aren't going to burn them out.

Nothing that lived and breathed was truly objective—even in a vacuum, even if all that possessed the brain was a self-immolating desire for the truth.

That's how the madness of the world tries to colonize you: from the outside in, forcing you to live in its reality.

An inordinate love of ritual can be harmful to the soul, unless, of course, in times of great crisis, when ritual can protect the soul from fracture.