Truth, she thought. As terrible as death. But harder to find.
They ought to make it a binding clause that if you find God you get to keep Him.
We didn’t have sense enough to take care of it. Now it’s torn. And the artist is dead.
Perhaps if you know you are insane then you are not insane. Or you are becoming sane, finally.
We are all insects. Groping towards something terrible or divine-
Cancer… the process of creation gone wild, I thought.
The most dangerous kind of person… is one who is afraid of his own shadow.
Everybody knows that Aristotelian two-value logic is fucked.