Complaints About Reality Are Immature.

I Still Maintain That An Ordinary Human Being Has The Right To Be Horrified By A Mangled Body Seen On An Afternoon Walk.

Literature Was Intended To Be Dangerous. Art Was Meant To Be Dangerous. Ideas Were Nothing If They Were Not Dangerous.

Everyone Who’s Born Has Come From The Sea. Your Mother’s Womb Is Just A Sea In Small. And Birds Come Of Seas On Eggs. Horses Lie In The Sea Before They’re Born. The Placenta Is The Sea. Your Blood Is The Sea Continued In Your Veins. We Are The Ocean — Walking On The Land.

In The Dark That Followed - Lucy Said; "where I Was Born, The Trees Were Always In The Sun. And I Left That Place Because It Was Intolerant Of Rain. Now, We Are Here In A Place Where There Are No Trees And There Is Only Rain. And I Intend To Leave This Place - Because It Is Intolerant Of Light. Somewhere - There Must Be Somewhere Where Darkness And Light Are Reconciled. So I Am Starting A Rumour, Here And Now, Of Yet Another World. I Don't Know When It Will Present Itself - I Don't Know Where It Will Be. But - As With All Those Other Worlds Now Past When It Is Ready, I Intend To Go There.

Nothing So Completely Verifies Our Perception Of A Thing As Our Killing Of It.