That which is imagined can never be lost.
No tears, please. It’s a waste of good suffering.
It’s only when you’ve lost someone that you realize the nonsense of that phrase “It’s a small world”. It isn’t. It’s a vast, devouring world, especially if you’re alone.
You cut up a thing that’s alive and beautiful to find out how it’s alive and why it’s beautiful, and before you know it, it’s neither of those things, and you’re standing there with blood on your face and tears in your sight and only the terrible ache of guilt to show for it.
Here is a list of terrible things, The jaws of sharks, a vultures wings The rabid bite of the dogs of war, The voice of one who went before, But most of all the mirror’s gaze, Which counts us out our numbered days.
To call you excrement would be an insult to the product of my bowels.
All things are true. God’s an Astronaut. Oz is Over the Rainbow, and Midian is where the monsters live.” – Peloquin.
My father used to say: Every bird is one bird, and every book is one book, and every bird and every book is one thing too, under the words and the feathers.” He finished with a flourish, as though the meaning of this was self-evident.
Nothing ever begins. There is no first moment; no single word or place from which this or any other story springs.
Who can call a man dead whose words still hush and whose sentiments move?
Where else can bubble-gum hearts, the dream travellers, the serial killers, and the occasional guest-star from beyond the grave occupy the same space?
Perhaps the House had heard Harvey wishing for a full moon, because when he and Wendell traipsed upstairs and looked out the landing window, there – hanging between the bare branches of the trees – was a moon as wide and as white as a dead man’s smile.
You’re damned if you can’t forgive, Jude.
However this miraculous place worked, it seemed real enough. The sun was hot, the soda was cold, the sky was blue, the grass was green. What more did he need to know?
Does the beef salute the butcher as it throbs to it’s knees?
What did I see? It’s no use telling you there are no words. Of course there are words; there are always words. The question is: can I wield them well enough to evoke the power of what I witnessed? That I doubt. But let me do my best.
It’d just be another opinion,” Maxine said, poking at the fire with the stick she’d picked up. “People would go on believing their favorite versions.” “You think?” “For sure. You can’t change people’s opinion about stuff like that. It’s embedded. They believe what they believe.
We are all our own graveyards, I believe; we squat amongst the tombs of the people we were. If we’re healthy, every day is a celebration, a Day of the Dead, in which we give thanks for the lives that we lived, and if we are neurotic we brood and mourn and wish that the past was still present.
I’ve learned two things in my life. One that love is the beginning and end of all meaning. And two that it is the same thing whatever shape our souls have taken on this journey. Love is love. Is love.
Memory, prophecy, and fantasy – The past, the future, and The dreaming moment between – Are all in one country, Living one immortal day. To know that is Wisdom. To use it is the Art.