Bryan Lee Peterson

“The poet he was escorting into Wales was a Horus-headed dud of some personal magnetism. The hair was feathered gell, the nose hooked. He stared at me and he didn’t. His eyes belonged to a magician; one bored into you, right through the lens into the depths of the vitreous humor—while the other popped and wobbled in the style of Ben Turpin. He folded in on himself, profile sharp as an axe. A labrys. This man would have no problem seeing around a corner.”
― Iain Sinclair, Landor's Tower: Or Imaginary Conversations

“The wind seems to be blowing through the gaps in the conversation like the rushing of empty space.”
― Michael Cisco

“You can be so much in a room that the world outside turns to water. You've got the heater blowing out burnt air, but you still don't get warm. Your ankles are singed, but your head's in a bucket of ice. Time drips like a stalactite. The water for the coffee boils away in a tree of steam.”
― Iain Sinclair, White Chappell, Scarlet Tracings

“What it must feel like to lie back with cut wrists in a warm bath, a voluptuous dwindling feeling.”
― Michael Cisco