Matt Bean

“They motored out past the pilings, dark with pitch and trailing a green scurf in the claycolored water.”
― Cormac McCarthy, The Passenger

“He stood in the center of the square where the tracks of commerce lay fossilized in dried mud all about him, turning, an amphitheatrical figure in that moonwrought waste manacled to a shadow that struggled grossly in the dust.”
― Cormac McCarthy, Outer Dark

“The snow falls in cartoonish heaps, and I think blurrily of how forms are destiny: how the rain is destined for its torrents and the snow for its drifts, and the poems for their sheafs and me for the poems. Something seizes me and I break into a sudden run down the silent street. “I am fast,” I always insist to my husband, lying motionless and stubborn in the middle of the bed. “I used to be so fast, until I grew up and got boobs.” He never believes me, but look now, I am fast again; I’m running in between the snowflakes. The unrepeating”
― Patricia Lockwood, Priestdaddy: A Memoir

“manifestations of paranoia. We must content ourselves with the mystery, the absurdity, the contradictions, the hostility, but also the generosity that our environment offers us. It’s not much, but it’s always better than the deadly, defeatist certainty of the paranoid.”
― Philip K. Dick, Philip K. Dick: The Last Interview: and Other Conversations