But at least he can still see the lights below us. Although maybe for him it doesn't matter.

Every junkie, he thought, is a recording.

The tragedy in his life already existed. To love an atmospheric spirit. That was the real sorrow. Hopelessness itself. Nowhere on the printed page, nowhere in the annals of man, would her name appear: no local habitation, no name. There are girls like that, he thought, and those you love most, the ones where there is no hope because it has eluded you at the very moment you close your hands around it.

The problem with introspection is that it has no end.

The silence of the world could not rein back it's greed. Not any longer. Not when it had virtually won.

Every time I see a picture of Stalin I look him square in the eye and I say: You're a meat eater, Joseph.

But at least he can still see the lights below us. Although maybe for him it doesn't matter.