“These Dionysians obliterate themselves by removing filters, ultimately becoming insensate with sensation.”

The essay form has superceded the novel as the vehicle that best suggests the prevailing apocalyptic gestalt, and as the talisman that is most able to repel the onset of paralysing dread.

Until then, there’s a lot of work to be done.

The best of them will work alone, already a part of the enemy camp, and in chameleon-like style master the fifth-column algorithms to subvert the ancient regime.

We won’t know them by their name but their compensation will be to affect the outcome of the planet.

The disenfranchised offspring, along with an entire ageless class of human discards, know only that they are doomed.

And, in the future, while the dumb show of bohemianism plays itself out in the cookie cutter shape of the politically correct martyr/victim, aesthetic terrorists will not involve themselves in the dubious rewards of celebrity.

This mode of behaviour originates in the superstitious belief that transcendence is acquired in the precise ratio by which reason is destroyed.

They are drawn to spikes and pentagrams, gasoline, guitars screaming like whips, MIDI-programmed Thanatos, with sufficient amplitude to occupy that hollow space where consciousness once resided.

I imagine a soul is a little perfect crystal egg floating in your chest.

The hankering of the mind is irresistible.

The point is the love story. We live in a love story in the midst of war.

God’s address is at the end of your rope.

To bear lightly the neck’s yoke brings strength; but kicking against the goads is the way of failure.

I’m obsessed with the form of a toolbox.

Bed is a bundle of paradoxes: we go to it with reluctance, yet we quit it with regret.

For some the fairest thing on the dark earth is Thermopylae, And the Spartan phalanx lowering lances to die.