The sky was the colour of sad weddings.

Sometimes you have to trust grownups, perhaps more so when they are not there to actually supervise you.

For other people, love is like some rare orchid that can only grow in one place under a certain set of conditions. For me it's like bindweed. It grows with no encouragement at all, under any conditions, and just strangles everything else.

Routine kills creative thought.

I hate stereotypes and I hate cliche.

Real life is physical. Give me books instead. Give me the invisibility of the contents of books, the thoughts, the ideas, the images. Let me become part of a book. . . . an intertextual being: a book cyborg, or, considering that books aren't cybernetic, perhaps a bibliorg.

In real life nothing means anything. Stuff happens and there just is no structure.