But an artist, he realized. Or rather so-called artist. Bohemian. That's closer to it. The artistic life without the talent.
Philip K. DickHow much of what we call 'reality' is actually out there or rather within our own head?
Philip K. DickMaybe I'll go where I can see stars, he said to himself as the car gained velocity and altitude; it headed away from San Francisco, toward the uninhabited desolation to the north. To the place where no living thing would go. Not unless it felt that the end had come.
Philip K. DickBut the actual touch of her lingered, inside his heart. That remained. In all the years of his life ahead, the long years without her, with never seeing her or hearing from her or knowing anything about her, if she was alive or happy or dead or what, that touch stayed locked within him, sealed in himself, and never went away. That one touch of her hand.
Philip K. Dick