They waited. The door did not open. The rain did not stop. The darkness made a tent and covered them completely.

Literature was intended to be dangerous. Art was meant to be dangerous. Ideas were nothing if they were not dangerous.

Think of any great man or woman. How can you separate them from the years in which they lived? You can't. Their greatness lies in their response to that moment.

Complaints about reality are immature.

Time is light, time is dark. You either dance, or you fall.

They waited. The door did not open. The rain did not stop. The darkness made a tent and covered them completely.

I doubt we will ever be forgiven. All I hope is – they'll remember we were human beings