Time is not a line but a dimension, like the dimensions of space.

In the evenings there's been thunder, a distant bumping and stumbling, like God on a sullen binge.

Madness is only an amplification of what you already are.

As all historians know, the past is a great darkness, and filled with echoes. Voices may reach us from it; but what they say to us is imbued with the obscurity of the matrix out of which they come; and try as we may, we cannot always decipher them precisely in the clearer light of our day.

I'm working on my own life story. I don't mean I'm putting it together; no, I'm taking it apart.

Hatred would have been easier. With hatred, I would have known what to do. Hatred is clear, metallic, one-handed, unwavering; unlike love.

When you're unhinged, things make their way out of you that should be kept inside, and other things get in that ought to be shut out. The locks lose their powers. The guards go to sleep. The passwords fail.