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Art never comes from happiness.





We've taken the world apart but we have no idea what to do with the pieces.





And because there's no possibility of real disaster, real risk, we're left with no chance for real salvation. Real elation. Real excitement. Joy. Discovery. Invention.

The laws that keep us safe, these same laws condemn us to boredom.

Without access to true chaos, we'll never have true peace.

Unless everything can get worse, it wont get any better.





It's creepy but here we are, the pilgrims, the crackpots of our time, trying to establish our own alternate reality. To build a world out of rocks and chaso.

I've met God across his long walnut desk with his diplomas hanging on the wall behind him, and God asks me, "why?".

Why did I cause so much pain?

Didn't I realize that each of us is a sacred, unique snowflake of special unique specialness?

Can't I see how we're all manifestations of love?

I look at God behind his desk, taking notes on a pad, but God's got this all wrong.

We are not special.

We are not crap or trash, either.

We just are.

We just are, and what happens just happens.

And God says, "No that's not right."

Yeah. Well. Whatever. You can't teach God anything.