Consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds.

Life, carefully examined, is actually a form of allegorical literature with a very tight constructural grid laid over it.

The psychedelic experience is not a journey into the human unconscious, or into the ghost bards of our human civilization. It's a journey into the presence of the Gaian mind.

We don't have to look far for miracles because they're all around us. Everything is astonishing. The universe on it's surface is alive with mystery.

It seems to me that it is psyche in a way that has become occluded by the perverse development of language.

Having lived long enough to go at least once or twice around the block, I'm noticing that the strangeness is not receding The strangeness seems to be accelerating.

The most beautiful things in the universe are inside the human mind.