I really wanted to believe that there were these magic celestial bodies that would direct my life, tell me what to do, and it turns out it's not stars, it's some bits of screwy DNA. I'm just meat with faulty programming.

Only other people can make you feel real.

World needs more angels, even plywood ones.

Fashion is only different skins for different flavours of you.

There are patterns because we try to find them. A desperate attempt at order because we can't face the terror that it might all be random.

The future is not as loud as war, but it is relentless. It has a terrible fury all its own.

Memory is curated. All this paraphernalia you collect to ward off forgetting