The cartoon me writes the books cartoon people read in the cartoon world, because they need things to read there too.

The fallen autumn leaves were slick beneath Bod's feet, and the mists blurred the edges of the world. Nothing was as clean-cut as he had thought it, a few minutes before.

If you can't eat it, drink it, smoke it, or snort it... then f*ck it!

It was a perfectly normal gerbil. It appeared to be living in an exciting construction of cylinders, spheres and treadmills, such as the Spanish Inquisition would have devised if they'd had access to a plastics molding press.

It's like one of those dreams that changes you. You keep some of the dream forever, and you know things down deep inside yourself, because it happened to you, but when you go looking for details they kind of just slip out of your head.

Any view of things that is not strange, is false.

I'm never quite sure if I'm me when I'm dressed up.