I like my metaphors shaken, not stirred.

People who can’t make things of value make money.

I sit and think thoughts so potent that, though they be not about sex, they do stir my loins.

She reflects the parts of me I hide from myself. She embodies my tenderness, love, shyness, and vulnerability. She shows me there is beauty
in the parts of myself
that engender such fear in me
that I only grudgingly acknowledge them.
In the light her reflection shines, I begin to know myself in whole. In her presence, I know my measure.

I don’t need good shit. I am good shit.

Pride, you get me out of bed feeling good then you cut my fucking balls off.

I wish I could be original, but I’m terrified of being different.

In my aggregate of contrasts, I perceive a pattern, and that pattern is my world.

Contrast, Contrast! It’s never about the shade of the thing we’re looking at. It’s only ever about the shade of the thing next to the thing we’re looking at.

There seem to be three kinds of religion: The kind rich people came up with to control poor people; the kind rich people co-opted to control poor people; and cults.