In A Completely Sane World, Madness Is

Memories Have Huge Staying Power, But Like Dreams, They Thrive In The Dark, Surviving For Decades In The Deep Waters Of Our Minds Like Shipwrecks On The Sea Bed.

Art Exists Because Reality Is Neither Real Nor Significant.

Deep Assignments Run Through All Our Lives; There Are No Coincidences.

A Ton Of Proust Isn’t Worth An Ounce Of Ray Bradbury.

Along With Our Passivity, We're Entering A Profoundly Masochistic Phase Everyone Is A Victim These Days, Of Parents, Doctors, Pharmaceutical Companies, Even Love Itself. And How Much We Enjoy It. Our Happiest Moments Are Spent Trying To Think Up New Varieties Of Victimhood.