By The Time You Read This, You'll

It's So Quiet This High Up, The Feeling You Get Is That You're One Of Those Space Monkeys. You Do The Little Job You're Trained To Do. Pull A Lever. Push A Button. You Don't Understand Any Of It, And Then You Just Die.

Because Nothing Is As Perfect As You Can Imagine It.

Here In Your Mind You Have Complete Privacy. Here There's No Difference Between What Is And What Could Be.

Real Writers Write Because They Love To Write. They Don't Write For Public Acclaim.

I Suppose It’s Comfort, Perhaps A Sense Of Self-control, Doing Worse Things To Yourself Than The World Will Ever Dare Inflict.