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

The general public has long been divided into two parts; those who think that science can do anything and those who are afraid it will.

The Saint whose water can light lamps, the clairvoyant whose lapse in recall is the breath of God, the true paranoid for whom all is organized in spheres joyful or threatening about the central pulse of himself, the dreamer whose puns probe ancient fetid shafts and tunnels of truth all act in the same special relevance to the word, or whatever it is the word is there, buffering, to protect us from. The act of metaphor than was a thrust at truth and a lie, depending where you were: inside, safe or outside, lost.

Every weirdo in the world is on my wavelength.

What sort of an age is this where a man becomes one's enemy only when his back is turned?

For a moment she'd wondered if the seal around her sockets were tight enough to allow the tears simply to go on and fill up the entire lens space and never dry. She could carry the sadness of the moment with her that way forever, see the world refracted through those tears, those specific tears, as if indices as yet unfound varied in important ways from cry to cry.

Can't say it often enough — change your hair, change your life.