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.

Someday it'll all be done by machine. Information machines.

Why should things be easy to understand?

It takes, unhappily, no more than a desk and writing supplies to turn any room into a confessional.

There is nothing so loathsome as a sentimental surrealist.

Let the peace of this day be here tomorrow when I wake up.

There is no real direction here, neither lines of power nor cooperation. Decisions are never really made – at best they manage to emerge, from a chaos of peeves, whims, hallucinations and all around assholery.