All these thousands of miles later, all these different people I’ve been, and it’s still the same story. Why is it you feel like a dope if you laugh alone, but that’s usually how you end up crying? How is it you can keep mutating and still be the same deadly virus?
Every day: Wear sunblock. Cover your gray. Do not go insane. Eat less fats and sugars. Do more sit-ups. Don’t start forgetting stuff. Trim the hair in your ears. Take calcium. Moisturize. Every day. Freeze in time to stay in one place forever. Do not get frigging old.
You know that old phrase ‘Those who don’t remember the past are condemned to repeat it’? Well, I think those who remember the past are even worse off.
Only when we eat up this planet will God give us another. We’ll be remembered more for what we destroy than what we create.
Stick and stones may break your bones, but words will never hurt you.
Shotgunning anybody in this room would be the moral equivalent of killing a car, a vacuum cleaner, a Barbie doll. Erasing a computer disk. Burning a Book. Probably that goes for killing anybody in the world. We’re all such products.
Losing all hope was freedom.
Which is worse, Hell or nothing? Only if we’re caught and punished can we be saved.
Everything is still falling apart.
You think maybe if you just work harder and faster, you can hold off the chaos, but then one day you’re changing a patio light bulb with a five-year life span and you realize how you’ll only be changing this light maybe ten more times before you’ll be dead.
A moment it the most you can ever expect from perfection.
The best way to waste your life is by taking notes. The easiest way to avoid living is to just watch. Look for the details. Report. Don’t participate. Let Big Brother do the singing and dancing for you. Be a reporter. Be a good witness. A grateful member of the audience.
As the French say, who doesn’t like getting their butt sucked?
Trust me, the being-dead part is much easier than the dying part. If you can watch much television, then being dead will be a cinch. Actually, watching television and surfing the Internet are really excellent practice for being dead.
Big Brother fills us all with the same crap. My guess is he was clever the same way everybody thinks they’re clever. I tell her to type in ’password.
Given the choice between grabbing a strange tongue and watching a monster poop into a giant snail shell, the face retreats and slams the door behind it.
Peter used to say that an artist’s job is to make order out of chaos. You collect details, look for a pattern, and organize. You make sense out of senseless facts. You puzzle together bits of everything. You shuffle and reorganize. Collage. Montage. Assemble.
You’re a different human being to everybody you meet.
You have a class of young men and women, and they want to give their lives to something. Advertising has these people chasing cars and clothes they don’t need. Generations have been working in jobs they hate, just so they can buy what they don’t really need.
Nothing is static. Even the Mona Lisa is falling apart.