The Suburbs Dream Of Violence.

Perhaps The Future Belongs To Magic, And It's We Women Who Control Magic.

Our Lives Today Are Not Conducted In Linear Terms. They Are Much More Quantified; A Stream Of Random Events Is Taking Place.

Civilised Life, You Know, Is Based On A Huge Number Of Illusions In Which We All Collaborate Willingly. The Trouble Is We Forget After A While That They Are Illusions And We Are Deeply Shocked When Reality Is Torn Down Around Us.

Trying To Exhaust Himself, Vaughan Devised An Endless Almanac Of Terrifying Wounds And Insane Collisions: The Lungs Of Elderly Men Punctured By Door-handles; The Chests Of Young Women Impaled On Steering-columns; The Cheek Of Handsome Youths Torn On The Chromium Latches Of Quarter-lights. To Vaughan, These Wounds Formed The Key To A New Sexuality, Born From A Perverse Technology. The Images Of These Wounds Hung In The Gallery Of His Mind, Like Exhibits In The Museum Of A Slaughterhouse.

By The Eighteenth Book, One Has A Sense Of Having Bricked Oneself Into A Niche, A Roosting Place For Other People's Pigeons. I Wouldn't Recommend It.