People’re a nestful of needs. Dull needs, sharp needs, bottomless-pit needs, flash-in-the-pan needs, needs for things you can’t hold, needs for things you can.
People are obscenities. Would rather be music than be a mass of tubes squeezing semisolids around itself for a few decades before becoming so dribblesome it'll no longer function.
People are masks, with masks under those masks, and masks under those, and down you go.
Our right to be here is weaker by the minute.
Our ancestors built temples for their gods. We build department stores.
Orito pictures the human mind as a loom that weaves disparate threads of belief, memory and narrative into an entity whose common name is Self, and which sometimes calls itself Perception.
Only I don't close my eyes these days, because it hurts too much when I open them.
One fine day a predatory world shall consume itself.
One cannot pass by without thinking of the density of men in the ground.
One can spot a fellow musician in any context, even amongst policemen. The craziest-eyed, unruliest-haired one, either hungry-skinny or jovial-portly.
One bright dusk, four, five, no, my God, six summers ago, I strolled along a Greenwich avenue of mature chestnuts and mock oranges in a state of grace. Those Regency residences number amount London's...
Once any tyranny becomes accepted as ordinary, according to Veronica, its victory is assured.
On an impulse he cannot explain, he buys himself a one-way ticket - and the evening of that very same day finds him wandering the streets of the old colonial quarter of the Colombian town. Girls in lo...
Oh, aging is ruddy unbearable! The I's we were yearn to breathe the world's air again, but can they ever break out from these calcified cocoons?
Nothing often poses in men as wisdom. Spring
Naming, thinks Jacob, even in ridicule, gives what is named substance.
My landlord is eating a blueberry-blooded Popsicle.
My heart’s a clubbed baby seal.
My friend is composing an epic in Byronic stanzas entitled True History of Autua, Last Moriori & interrupts my journal writing to ask what rhymes with what: - Streams of blood? Themes of mud? Robin Ho...
Mrs.Comb tightened her headscarf and wondered why human beings despise what is beautiful and good, and seek to destroy the things they need the most. She could not understand it. She could not begin t...