From The Place of Dead Roads by William Burroughs:

"Time is a resource. Time runs out. The most basic problem facing any culture is the conservation and disbursement of time. Human time is measured in terms of human change. So the most flagrant time-wasting may minimize change and thus conserve time.

"The English dictum of never going too far in any direction is actually a time-saving expedient, ill advised to be sure when it may be necessary to go too far in all directions for a bare fighting chance of survival. Utopian concepts step from a basic misconception as to our mission here. So many snares and dead ends. Nietzsche said, "Men need play and danger. Civilization gives them work and safety".

"Some cultures cultivated danger for itself, not realizing that danger derives from conflicting purposes. Happiness is a by-product of function. Those who seek happiness for itself seek victory without war. This is the flaw in all utopias. A society, like the individuals who compose it, is an artifact designed for a purpose. As to what life may be worth when the purpose is gone..."

Does insecurity come before or after doubt? Can devotion be compatible with independence? How can two seperate "I's" merge into one all-encompassing "we"?

When frightened, you seek to reinforce your sense of individuality. "This is me, and I'm doing fine, albeit in a slightly inconsistent way", you whisper to yourself, again and again, making it sound like some kind of incomprehensible mantra.

"I'm whole, even though I tend to believe that my better half is out there somewhere. I've been in love with shadows and ghosts and strangers, and the occasional real person, too. Yes, it's mostly been a solitary journey, but not without its joys."

Then silence. We've watched our utopias dissolve into dust, one by one. If love is the only antidote to loneliness, where does freedom fit into the exchange, and does our happiness truly depend upon it?

What is the answer to the eternal question?
What might be the question, if the answer is no?
And what if our alibis coincide?

Like drugs, philosophy transports you to an artificial universe. There, amidst the hidden traps and dangerous creatures, a discerning traveler may find innumerable tools to make everyday life on Earth more meaningful, inspirational and tolerable.

Walk around in littered streets. Crowds caught in a pre-election frenzy. Give us a break, not another break down. The ship is sinking. Maybe I've lost you for good this time.

The inhabitants of Planet Chaos are debating the laws of gravity. Beware all audience-seeking strategies. There is only one method for exorcising loneliness: you will first have to sacrifice your impenetrable realm of melancholic serenity as a sign of goodwill.

From a short story by Jeanette Winterson
(published in last Saturday's Guardian):

"Once upon a time there was a polar bear. He had nowhere to live so he came to live in your head. You started to think polar bear thoughts about icyness and wilderness. You went shopping and looked at fish. At night you dreamed your skin was fur. When you got in the bath you dropped through nameless waters deeper than regret. You left the cold tap running. You flooded the house. You dived into winter with no clothes on. You sought loneliness. You wanted to see the sun rise after a night that lasted as long as all the things you have done wrong. You wanted to see the sun come up and no one to be near you. You wanted to look out over the rim of the world. But you live in the city and the rest is gone."

(...)

"What's the difference between a dinosaur and a human being? A dinosaur destroys everything - but doesn't call it progress."

It's hard, when you suddenly learn how to feel again. The joy and pain of being weak, vulnerable, alive; of watching the sunset as if it were the first time. Eyes wide open struggle to get it all in. Bodies of wax melting under each other's heat.

There we go again, looking for the secret recipe, the magic spell that will grant our shared illusion a speck of eternity. When the night drops its gentle veil upon us, all our wasted moments become one before they are drowned in the bittersweet tears of nostalgia.

Don't leave me now, I'm blind without you, the sun is no longer enough...

Sometimes I can't stop wondering what hurts more: our words or our silences. We stand paralyzed, expressionless faces mask soundless screams as we watch the chasm growing between us. Fragments of an envisioned future scattered on the floor- has all hope of communication been lost?

An ashen cloud covers the city; flames lit the battles raging inside us. Agoraphobic souls in a state of emergency. Shall I give up on you before the dream has had a chance to materialize, should I go back to what i know and feel safe around?

After all the great wars, our armour is filled with holes, yet the iron has become one with our skin. Every time you remove a blood-soaked piece, i sink helplessly into a sea of agony and expectation.

A cynic that falls in love is like a walking paradox. A pessimist, who begins to paint the future in bright colours, has probably lost all touch with a once solid reality. At night, cicadas struggle to cover the noise of passing cars. This city's inhabitants have long given up
on sleep.

Did you think I was gone for good- and did it matter to you? For a while, I assumed I had nothing more to say, yet it seems I've been granted another fleeting promise of inspiration. A lot has changed, though I'm still haunted by innumerable ghosts. Would you care to be my imaginary audience once again?

The past few weeks have been so unexpectedly wonderful, it was hard to sustain my faith in the futility of life. Unable to find a reason for despair, I was inclined to mourn for the transient nature of desire, but all my attempts were spoiled by the stubborn and totally ungrounded belief that even better times lie ahead.

Is this an end of an era?, you may wonder, but I've got no answers for you today. Only one thing is certain: things have changed, perhaps for good, even though the future remains conveniently out of sight. Am I ready to let go? Ι think so.

Something has occurred, something much awaited for and yet totally unexpected. I was walking home one day, as it suddenly hit me. I didn't realize it at the time; no, not until the stars began to shine brighter than ever and the world took on the colour it takes only when...you know.

My mind is elsewhere now. I feel the urge to walk away- still, I suspect I'll miss you. I'll miss the depth and the sorrow and the charred expectations; I'll miss the unattainable promises of hope and the pain caused by their collapse; I'll miss your voice as it whispered my name, and your face, since I had to construct it from memory a million times or more; I'll miss you, wherever you go, whoever you become, and however unbridgeable the gap between us grows...

How little time it takes to turn a whole life upside down...There's nothing wrong with that, my voice of reasoning whispers. Is it all right if I stop dreaming of you for a while? Even if I say goodbye now, do I not deserve the chance to be spellbound all over again?

Another apparition seems to have taken your place. The replacement occurred smoothly and almost involuntarily- or rather, I did my best to resist the metamorphosis, but the desire to be transformed was stronger than the will to remain unchanged.

Of course I'm sceptical- what did you expect? Everyday realities may change, yet old habits die hard and I was never one to completely soak myself in the waters of certainty. They say to love is to doubt what you believe the most...or is it vice-versa?

We spent the whole winter fantasizing about it, and now it's here. When fear mingles with excitement, all you can do is hold your breath and hope for the best. How will it end, you wonder, before it has even begun to unfold. Do we try to make this work, or do we let go whilst there's still time to escape unscathed?

For no reason at all, you give a different twist to a late-night conversation by dwelling on the futility of love. What if we've become way too distant and cynical, you ask, what if we're no longer capable of true affection? What if, in anticipating the inevitable ending, we bring it about all too soon?

You repeat yourself, going around in vicious circles- the same old questions plaguing the same, sad souls. Then it kicks in. Thunders of awe and paranoia. Is this it, you whisper while you lie in the dark, longing for sleep to drown your ghosts of agony and desire in the mist of oblivion, yet struggling to remain awake so that none of these desolatingly miraculous moments goes to waste.