It's time to move on to the next step in the psychedelic revolution. We've reached a certain point, but we're not moving any more.

I listened to them fade away till all I could hear was my memory of the sound.

He's got hands so long and white and dainty I think they carved each other out of soap, and sometimes they get loose and glide around in front of him free as two white birds until he notices them and traps them between his knees; it bothers him that he's got pretty hands.

Don't say it...I've seen too many loves sundered by too much needless honesty.

To Vik Lovell who told me dragons did not exist, then led me to their lairs.

Then - as he was talking - a set of tail-lights going past lit up McMurphy's face, and the windshield reflected an expression that was allowed only because he figured it'd be too dark for anybody in the car to see, dreadfully tired and strained and frantic, like there wasn't enough time left for something he had to do.

You seem to forget, Miss Flinn, that this is an institution for the insane.