“Alas! Reality is such a crippled whore.
All mortal things are sick and rotten to the core, only the mind, a frail but kingly jewel, gives birth to beauty love and truth.
So why not stay and forever make a home, in the darkness of the only place you never can belong?
In a land, sublime that some call fantasy; our only hope of love…
I would rather be ashes than dust
I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot.
Let us toast to animal pleasures, to escapism, to rain on the roof and instant coffee, to unemployment insurance and library cards, to absinthe and good-hearted landlords, to music and warm bodies and contraceptives… and to the “good life”, whatever it is and wherever it happens to be.