are the only bullets in truth’s bandolier. And poets are the snipers.
thighs flesh rather than steel, her groin matted from the moisture of their passion. Her face is dark, the sun behind her, but he sees red flames dying in the multifaceted pits of her eyes. She smiles and he sees sunlight glint on rows of metal
Pain is the curl and foam of a wave that does not break.
It was a dramatization of total chaos, a functional definition of confusion, an unchoreographed dance of sad violence. It was war.
most individuals and all bureaucracies were too cretinous to manage a conspiracy. Each
Sarai gripped his hand. “Do you think you’re the only one who has had the dream?
They lay together in a sheltered place among the ruins of Brasilia while deathbeams from Chinese EMVs played like blue searchlights on broken ceramic walls.
The cybrid allows me to carry out my role in the datumplane community.
To be a true poet is to become God.
… That’s precisely what messiahs do, Raul . . . bridge different worlds. Different eras. Provide the bond between two irreconcilable concepts.