Carried by light, images remain while sensation is so evanescent as to be always beyond belief.

We are all full of discourses that we only half understand and half mean.

But here I hold your dream in my poem.

Thus drivers inching southward will see the phalanx of birds heading west as one spontaneous gesture.

The future is all around here.' It's a place, anyplace where we don't exist.

This is a strange book: visionary and dark. It stutters out a kind of music: repeated phrases which accumulate errors and mutate as they go like chromosomes or, as Woodward puts it better, 'visible fissile ribbons.' It's as if we were present for the moments of creation and extinction. Uncanny Valley is ominous and beautiful.

The crowd is made of little gods, and there is still no heaven.