Despair came over her, as it will when nobody around has any sexual relevance to you.

So generation after generation of men in love with pain and passivity serve out their time in the Zone, silent, redolent of faded sperm, terrified of dying, desperately addicted to the comforts others sell them, however useless, ugly or shallow, willing to have life defined for them by men whose only talent is for death.

Let me be unambiguous. I prefer not to be photographed.

What are the stars but points in the body of God where we insert the healing needles of our terror and longing?

What’s this? What are the antagonists doing here – infiltrating their own audience? Well, they’re not really. It’s somebody else’s audience at the moment, and these nightly spectacles are an appreciable part of the darkside hours of life of the rocket capital. The chances for any paradox here, really, are less than you think.

Life's single lesson: that there is more accident to it than a man can ever admit to in a lifetime and stay sane.

Shall I project a world?