I've learned not to trust what I see on television.
How’s it feel to be a worthless jumbo diddly-ass puppetool?
Consensual reality is both fragile and elastic, and it heals like the skin of a bubble.
You can't be deep without a surface.
We writers aren't sculpting in DNA, or even clay or mud, but words, sentences, paragraphs, syntax, voice; materials issued by tongue or fingertips but which upon release dissolve into the atmosphere,...
We were all four of us an arrangement around a missing centrepiece, as incoherent as a been less sentence.
Waves, sky, trees, Essrog - I was off the page now, away from the grammar of skyscrapers and pavement.
The thing about this bookshelf is that each of these books is a vast experience unto itself, while also being both self-contained and superbly useless. Reading any one of them doesn't get you anywhere...
The clacking of the checkers on the hardwood points was the music of honest thought, resounding in silence as it navigated the fortunes told by the pips on the dice.
The cars rushing below knew nothing. People in cars weren't New Yorkers anyway, they'd suffered some basic misunderstanding. The two boys on the walkway, apparently standing still they were moving fas...
Mingus Rude, Arthur Lomb, Gabriel Stern and Tim Vandertooth, even Aaron K. Doily: Dylan never met anyone who wasn't about to change immediately into someone else. His was a special talent for encounte...
In the sea of words, the is foam, surf bubbles riding the top. And it's a dark sea, and deep, where divers need lights on their helmets and would perish at the lower depths.
How strange it began to seem that cars have bodies that never are supposed to touch, a disaster if they do.
Each might have been a week except for night’s failure to come and close the deal. When
Chaos didn't know what this meant. He kept feeling like somehow, intending to travel across land, he'd traveled through time instead.
Baader-Meinhof Gruppe, they are called also. Yes.
The morning’s light danced on the spine of the new bridge, which towered like the guts of a cosmic piano. The same light that agitated the picture windows of the gaudy homes tumbled so recklessly into...
The invisible are always so resolutely invisible, until you see them.
Some people have things written all over their faces; the big guy had a couple of words misspelled in crayon on his.
Destroy the traces. I’d never tried to do that. Instead I’d lived in their midst for thirty years, oblivious, a blind man fancying himself invisible.