I don't do lunch. Corrupt artifact of late capitalism. Breakfast maybe?

The grandeur of space, dig it. Zillions of stars, each one gets its own pixel.”“Awesome.”“Maybe, but it’s code’s all it is.

The innocent are guilty, the guilty are beyond hope, everything’s on its head, it’s a Twelfth Night of late-capitalist contradiction…

Only the framing material, " Lucas demurely, "obvious influences, Neo-Tokyo from Akira, Ghost in the Shell, Metal Gear Solid by Hideo Kojima, or as he's known in my crib, God.

Meantime the Newspaper of Record goes around in a little pleated skirt shaking pompoms, leaping in the air with an idiot grin if so much as a cement mixer passes by.

When you have grace to speak kind words, declare the sacred-words.

There is something gratuitous about creation, an unnecessary abundance of beauty, and through its blossoms and pleasures we can revel in the sheer largesse of the Father.

In a sense, every form of expression is imposed upon one by social factors, one's own language above all.

I love football, but I'm sick of the World Cup. I don't even care about England.

Ah! soul of mine! Ah! soul of mine! Thy sluggish senses are but bars That stand between thee and the stars, And shut thee from the world divine.

The Inuit say that the stars are holes in heaven. And every time we see the people we loved shining through, we know they're happy.

A greater truth that I think we are faced with on a day-to-day basis as minorities is: We are the color of skin first and people second.

How do I get better once I've had the best?

The poet's labors are a work of joy, and require peace of mind.

I’ve chosen my life — now I want to start living it.