The next thing I remember is my vision being completely covered by what’s on the ship’s viewscreen: what appears to be a giant, imposing-looking dead tree floating in space.  The tree’s branches strike me as looking like tentacles.  A title appears near the bottom of my vision; the title says “The Brain of God”.  I get the impression that if I enter the tree-structure and complete some task, I will be able to end the “debauchery”.

(from a really old [sophomore year of high school?] dream notes file I just found, squirreled away in the same folder as the really bad fiction I was writing at the time)

When Kahn returned to learn the results three weeks later, she found out that she was a “high cool”. This categorization did not last. A few weeks later she learned that the category “high cool” had been demoted to a lower level of sophistication called “cool fools.” A new category, called “uncool connoisseurs,” became the highest level in the scale, which the researcher occupied.

Even if ultimate L exists, can be constructed and is every bit as glorious as Woodin hopes, it isn’t everyone’s ideal universe.

It has been said of him that “nobody since Poe has so loved a well-rotted corpse.”

My good friend Luc even made me a t-shirt with “Adam Warlock – Apocalypse Herald" on it which I initially wore with some trepidation, but shortly came to realize that the scope of what I was planning was so outlandish that it was safe from interference due to its raw inconceivability, ‘hidden in plain sight’ as it were.

I have infinite faith in her ability to dance the matrix but for the moment we are not speaking.

The Known Net recorded a Class Two perversion about once a century.

One story has it that [Alexander] Grothendieck is now convinced that the Devil is working to falsify the speed of light.

Spector, who was up in the control room and even more sharply dressed than Leonard, in an expensive black suit, green shirt and Cuban-heeled boots, called over the studio monitor, “Anybody laid-back in this room, get the fuck out of here.”  On the console was a bottle of Manischewitz Concord grape wine.  Spector picked it up, poured it into a Tweetie Pie glass and sucked it through a plastic straw.

During one session, at four o'clock in the morning, as Leonard was finally getting to sing, Spector came down from the control room.  In his left hand was a half-empty bottle of Manischewitz and in his right hand a gun.  Spector wrapped an arm around Leonard’s shoulder in a comradely manner.  Then he pushed the nuzzle of the gun into Leonard’s neck.  "Leonard, I love you,“ he said, cocking the trigger.  "I hope you do, Phil,” Leonard replied.