At the end of the world the sunset is like a child smashing a pack of crayons into God’s face.

Friday dusk becomes Friday evening. The park is feverish with life. A young Asian man screams into his mobile phone, not stopping to listen: a young man with his heart in his penis.

The question should be who do we want to be when we grow up, not what.

I was staying in a hotel in San Francisco for a couple of nights, before flying back to the UK. My hotel was a desperate grey block made from paper and people’s screams. At night the sound of strangers having icy sex echoed off the building and poured through the broken air conditioning, like tiny daggers I couldn't see, reminding me of just the tip of what I was missing.

There’s only one Earth, and it’s tiny, but evil human leaders avoid problems they don’t want to resolve by giving them names which make the problems sound like they’re taking place in a different world: they make people not care about other people dying of starvation by calling the place the dying live “the third world.

They put money into attack, by calling it defence.

Love is born from disagreeing over something we believe in. Hate is born from disagreeing over something we fear.

She danced like no one was watching, but she knew that I was.

I wonder if I'm being paranoid. I tell myself I'm not, and then ask myself how I can be so sure? I don’t know the answer, so I go back to wondering if I am.