Sleep Is An Eight-hour Peep Show Of

'what Was Being On The Moon Literally Like?' [. . .] 'being On The Moon?' His Tired Gaze Inspected The Narrow Street Of Cheap Jewellery Stores, With Its Office Messengers And Lottery Touts, The Off-duty Taxi-drivers Leaning Against Their Cars. 'it Was Just Like Being Here.'

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.

I Find Wholly Baffling The Widespread Belief Today That The Dropping Of The Hiroshima And Nagasaki Bombs Was An Immoral Act, Even Possibly A War Crime To Rank With Nazi Genocide.

If You're Against Globalisation, It Doesn't Achieve Much By Sort Of Bombing The Head Offices Of Shell Or Nestle. You Unsettle People Much More By Blowing Up An Oxfam Shop Because People Can't Understand The Motive.

The Catastrophe Story, Whoever May Tell It, Represents A Constructive And Positive Act By The Imagination Rather Than A Negative One, An Attempt To Confront The Terrifying Void Of A Patently Meaningless Universe By Challenging It At Its Own Game. [. . .] Each One Of These Fantasies Represents An Arraignment Of The Finite, An Attempt To Dismantle The Formal Structure Of Time And Space Which The Universe Wraps Around Us At The Moment We First Achieve Consciousness.