Victor Robert Lee

I believe in the goddess of mystery. And she__ always pregnant!

Why ruin the present by talking about the past?

If it__ not one god it__ another. Allah or oil. Jesus or Jewels. Lenin or lust.

Ah, men losing the power in their dicks. When they can no longer f___ their women, they f___ the world.

Most men overestimate themselves. It__ the only way they can reproduce. It__ why we__e all here, us humans. Overestimation.

In my country, when we think about the future, we shake.

Your death rides a fast camel.

What took you so long? Waiting for Buddha?

To Cono__ mind the three assailants were all three nearly motionless even as they skittered and dodged, firing, maneuvering for a kill. Cono felt exhilaration__he ecstatic awareness that his strange brain and body had ordained him for just such moments, by allowing him to enter a space outside of time.

Cono knew that all three of his tormentors would know the anthem by heart from their childhood years. They had sung it daily to belong to the elite of their country, wearing around their necks the red ties of the Communist Party Youth Brigade, which had formed their beings and all that they would be and would ever believe, even as communism became a ghost and the party a web of corruption.

To make a friend you must close one eye. And to keep a friend, you must close both eyes.

The people need a strong leader. They feel insecure if they don__ know who to fear. Isn__ that why god was invented?

Maybe he had become addicted after all__ddicted to being the pivot point, to being as central as that crucial joint between copulating man and woman, but with a danger that did not know the bounds of orgasm.

A kite only flies if it__ tethered.

Hungry for what? Money? No. Power? Over people? That was like having power over clams.

It__ only a cut, a reminder of this day. A reminder to ask every day, Why am I doing this?

After all, the whole of humanity was anchored by inventions, contrivances, unrealities. Xiao Li lived on dreams, as most people do.

No person is just one person. Everyone is a crate of fruits, a crate of mixed fruits. The apple in there may have worms, a peach may be mildewed, a banana may be too green, a pear may be in perfect ripeness, and a melon may have the sweetest smell.