I don’t want to fade away, I want to flame away – I want my death to be an attraction, a spectacle, a mystery. A work of art.
Like all failed experiments, that one taught me something I didn’t expect: one key ingredient of so-called experience is the delusional faith that it is unique and special, that those included in it are privileged and those excluded from it are missing out.
There are so many ways to go wrong. All we’ve got are metaphors, and they’re never exactly right. You can never just Say. The. Thing.
Everybody sounds stoned, because they’re e-mailing people the whole time they’re talking to you.
I think, The world is actually huge. That’s the part no one can really explain.
Redemption, transformation – God how she wanted these things. Every day, every minute. Didn’t everyone?
A frenzy of activity that had mostly led him in circles: wasn’t that a fairly accurate description of lust?
You can do it alone. But it’s going to be so much harder.
Now there are permanent gray smudges in Scotty’s vision. He says he likes them – actually, what he says is: “I consider them a visual enhancement.” We think they remind him of his mom.
This vision tumbled over Phoebe with the force of revelation: she would stand somewhere and look back, she would live a life.
They sat in silence. Feathers, Phoebe thought, searching in vain for some moment of her own that could rival the beauty and mystery of Faith’s act. She felt a disappointment so familiar it was almost a comfort.
And see those metaphors ‘up front’ and ‘out in the open’ are part of a system we call atavistic purism. AP implies the existence of an ethically perfect state which not only doesn’t exist and never existed but it’s usually used to shore up the prejudices of whoever’s making the judgments.
We’re the survivors. Not everyone is. But we are.
Time’s a goon right? Isn’t that the expression?