The interior of our skulls contain a portal to infinity...of course it's happening in your head but why on earth should that mean it's not real?

Your head's like mine, like all our heads; big enough to contain every god and devil there ever was. Big enough to hold the weight of oceans and the turning stars. Whole universes fit in there! But what do we choose to keep in this miraculous cabinet? Little broken things, sad trinkets that we play with over and over. The world turns our key and we play the same little tune again and again and we think that tune's all we are.

A couple of pills started me down the Yellow Brick Road. Vodka tonic, double. What’s the worst that can happen? I thought. I’ll shit myself and choke on my own vomit in the back of a taxi or onstage. At least I’ll die with dignity.

As adults we’re all balanced on the frail shoulders of the infants and tweens we once were, wobbling on their epaulets to reach the lofty vantage points of middle age, blinking above the tree line as we wonder if the physical effort was worth it for the cheerless panorama.

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"May in Varanasi. 25° and wet. It's like the 6th circle of the inferno here, Edith - where they flail the arses off the howling heretics and the men who fuck marine life etc. NATO's stomping on the Balkans while India and Pakistan threaten one another with nukes. "Dead From the Waist Down" on MTV. The humidity's making me horny and mad. I miss Robin. In his new book, Ken Wilbur calls it "skin hunger". I feel like I'm building up a charge. Monsoon's on its way."