I still get nightmares. In fact, I get them so often I should be used to them by now. I’m not. No one ever really gets used to nightmares.
Very soon he will vanish completely in the wings of his own wordless stanza.
I live at the end of some interminable corridor which the lucky damned can call hell but which the much unluckier atheists – and your mother heads up that bunch- must simply get used to calling home.
What can I say, I’m a sucker for abandoned stuff, misplaced stuff, forgotten stuff, any old stuff which despite the light of progress and all that, still vanishes every day like shadows at noon, goings unheralded, passings unourned, well, you get the drift.
I had one woman come up to me in a bookstore and say, ‘You know, everyone told me it was a horror book, but when I finished it, I realized that it was a love story.’ And she’s absolutely right. In some ways, genre is a marketing tool.
Have no fear, you will find your way. It’s in your bones. It’s in your soul.
Passion has little to do with euphoria and everything to do with patience. It is not about feeling good. It is about endurance. Like patience, passion comes from the same Latin root: pati. It does not mean to flow with exuberance. It means to suffer.
I want something else. I’m not even sure what to call it anymore except I know it feels roomy and it’s drenched in sunlight and it’s weightless and I know it’s not cheap. Probably not even real.
I do not know anything about Art with a capital A. What I do know about is my art. Because it concerns me. I do not speak for others. So I do not speak for things which profess to speak for others. My art, however, speaks for me. It lights my way.
Some people reflect light, some deflect it, you by some miracle, seem to collect it.
At the heart of any terror is the fear of losing what we find meaningful.
Losing the possibility of something is the exact same thing as losing hope and without hope nothing can survive.
Here then at long last is my darkness. No cry of light, no glimmer, not even the faintest shard of hope to break free across the hold.
Her smile, I’m sure, burnt Rome to the ground.
Through all the windows I only see infinity.
Everyone loves the Dream but I kill it.
This great blue world of ours is but a house of leaves, moments before the wind.
No gunfire, famine, or flies. Just lots of toothpaste, gardening and people stuff.
Even the brightest magnesium flare can do little against such dark except blind the eyes of the one holding it. Thus one craves what by seeing one has in fact not seen.
Sublime is something you choke on after a shot of tequila.