Meditation... dissolves the mind. It erases itself. Throws the ego out on its big brittle ass.

There're many ways, my dear, to victimize people. The most insidious way is to persuade them that they're victims.

Like the Arthurian years at Camelot, the Sixties constituted a breakthrough, a fleeting moment of glory, a time when a significant little chunk of humanity briefly realised its moral potential and flirted with its neurological destiny, a collective spiritual awakening that flared brilliantly until the barbaric and mediocre impulses of the species drew tight once more the curtains of darkness.

Once, in a spasm of sappiness, you asked Q-Jo if she thought your dreams would ever come true. 'You aren't talking about dreams,' she corrected you, 'you're referring to your pathetic bourgeoisie ambitions. Dreams don't come true. Dreams are true.

The only question is how to make love stay.

Death is simple. Life is messy. Give me life, the more complicated the better.

This is the room where Jezebel frescoed her eyelids with history's tragic glitter