Sleep Is An Eight-hour Peep Show Of

In The Past We Have Always Assumed That The External World Around Us Has Represented Reality, However Confusing Or Uncertain, And That The Inner World Of Our Minds, Its Dreams, Hopes, Ambitions, Represented The Realm Of Fantasy, And The Imagination. These Roles, It Seems To Me, Have Been Reversed. The Most Prudent And Effective Method Of Dealing With The World Around Us Is To Assume That It Is A Complete Fiction - Conversely, The One Small Node Of Reality Left To Us Is Inside Of Our Own Heads.

Perhaps The Future Belongs To Magic, And It's We Women Who Control Magic.

By The Eighteenth Book, One Has A Sense Of Having Bricked Oneself Into A Niche, A Roosting Place For Other People's Pigeons. I Wouldn't Recommend It.

Actually, The Suburbs Are Far More Sinister Places Than Most City Dwellers Imagine. Their Very Blandness Forces The Imagination Into New Areas. I Mean, One's Got To Get Up In The Morning Thinking Of A Deviant Act, Merely To Make Certain Of One's Freedom. It Needn't Be Much; Kicking The Dog Will Do.

Put A Higher Value On Yourself. Being Hyper-realistic About Everything Is Too Simple A Get-out.