Lights and colors swarmed his mind, where his Elysian power normally rested, as though a dozen dams had burst within him at once. So much that had once eluded him became clear. Simple. He had the answer to all the world’s problems, and he had to share them. No, he didn’t have the answer. He was the answer.

By the measure of the theory of honour, only God could pay it off himself. But it isn’t God who owes it, so who is to pay it off, and to whom? That’s the human predicament.

“Tell him that we have fucking reprogrammed reality. Tell him that language is a virus and that religion is an operating system and that prayers are just so much fucking spam.

Dreaming isn’t dead. It can’t be. We can do it anew. Me and you, both of us are required. I believe writing can be a moral instrument if it asks you to do more than read. Do you? How many times will you witness people being starved or worked to death, driven out of their homelands, the land blasted and lives destroyed, and be only quietly horrified