Craig Stone Quotes

There is nothing more deceptive, more grandeur, than the delusion of a single man.

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

The evolution of the brain is directly proportionate to the evolution of humanity. Only when the brain has collected enough data about war, will it move on to collate information about love.

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.

Only the dying take pleasure in the details of what the healthy fail to notice.

Our problems come not from what we believe, but from how we believe in what we do.

He wasn't like some of the hippies in England, where the qualification to rebel is planted by the guilt raised from being a spoilt child with a good education. He was a real hippy born from being forced to kill for his army until he was twenty one. He had long hair because the army made him shave his head. The army made him shave every day too. Now he had a beard. His face for a long time was not his own. When this guy said he was all about peace he wasn't talking about peace because his mum never got him the horse he wanted for his eighteenth birthday, he was talking about peace because he'd seen war. He talked about love because he knew hate: hate for those above him, hate for those he had served with, hate for enemies not born his but who became so and, lastly, hate for himself for how his mind had been controlled.

I was just another lost soul screaming through the paper thin hotel walls into the ears of the fucked.

Some humans have a notion covering up their face makes them stand out to other people who don't notice them, because they look like everyone else.
They take away the beauty of individuality, by building their faces on fake foundations.
They all want to look the same, but have no reason to flock together.

Mohammad's face is serious. He takes another puff of his cigarette and coughs out dead air which, after leaving his lungs and hitting the outside world, takes its first breath on a journey to a fresher life. He drops his cigarette into the snow, places his foot over the burning end, twists his shoe to make sure it's out, and tells me he's trusting me. I have no idea what he's trusting me with, but whatever it is, it's so dangerous or evil he can't bring himself to speak of it out loud.
Hitler has just shared with me his plans for the final solution, and I've been subtly informed I have no choice but to come along for the ride.

In the end, they will say this of the human race: they had the freedom to go anywhere, but sat in front of the television. They were each responsible for saving the world, but they turned over the channel.

They spend billions of their currency every year on killing each other, and because they invest so much into killing, they don't have enough money to run their shops, to give people enough homes or food.
They have guns that can shoot out an eyeball from hundreds of yards away, and people who want to shoot an eyeball out from hundreds of yards: yet they turn both eyes blind to the problems humanity face.

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

When we're young nothing offends us, except adults telling us what should. Then when we become adults, nothing offends us, except we are offended on behalf of our young.

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

The word begone is a Russian doll. A small, single word, which contains so many others; and when all the smaller words inside line up, they look like a bridge: Be Beg Ego Go On One.

You are put in school to be trained to become exactly what they want you to be: not them, anything but them. They live on a golden island and have the key to the only bridge. Your parents are not millionaires, so it doesn't matter how intelligent you are, you aren't invited to their party. That's the great shame. The idiots have the gold, and the poor die to give it to them. So you better start to laugh, because this world is one big joke written by the few, at the expense of the masses. Look around you, that feeling your life isn't going anywhere? That's the feeling that makes you part of the masses.

Stale beer sticks to wobbling tables. The cigarette machine flashes in the corner, mocking smokers who never have any change on them. There's no natural light in this pub, so it's dark and gloomy. The pain on the face of the staff tells its own story: overworked, underpaid, exploited and treated as expendable. I feel at home with them. They're so scared they will be fired from their terrible jobs, every time I order a beer they ask me if I want any peanuts or crisps, in case between drinks I've turned into the dreaded mystery shopper. The air is chewy and weighs heavy on the skin. The fruit machines in the corners don't make a sound, aware this is the last stop saloon for the drunk few who can't afford to gamble properly. Everyone here is down to their last pint and pound.

When someone falls asleep on your chest, but the one really falling is you.

We used to talk and smile seven days ago when I was wearing a suit. Now I'm dressed in a beard and smell of dog shit I don't even get eye contact. I ask her how her week is going, and she looks to her friend behind the counter as if to say: I think this creep is hitting on me. Shall we call the police?

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.

A watched pot never boils, but if I took my eyes from these negative thoughts for a second they would spill over the edges of my lips, and boil the beautiful moment alive as we lived it.

Humans are born with two perfectly good lungs, into the only environment in the universe those lungs have evolved over millions of years to breathe in.

Winter has arrived in North London. Snow has settled.
The white snow looks beautiful and covers everything my eyes can see, yet beneath the incomprehensible beauty, the snow freezes greenery which struggles to breathe.
Green leaves freeze from existence as children scream go faster to fathers who push them along in upside down bin lids, as they make the most of their schools being closed.

My eyes open after my mind. All eyes always do.

I don't want to wake up. I can't feel the cold of life. I can't feel fear in my dreams. When awake we are green and red bits glowing under a machine, lights turn off and on, and people of science convince themselves they know what's going on. Backs are patted, hand are shaken. Test, record, collect. They tell us what we already know. We are all dying, dying slow. When awake, there is a feeling of impending doom, and if you can't feel it, close your eyes, or open them further. When we're in a box underground, heaven is finally above us, but it's not in the sky. Heaven is the planet we lived on, and all of the angels are people. Here, in a dream, it's just me floating in the back of my mind, among parts we don't fully understand.

Sometimes you need to sit in the wrong place to see the right view.

Anything you want to do is possible; fear is not meant to prevent but to motivate your heart into the life you naturally think is improbable

People with power tell people without it to cross a chasm they don't want to cross, to reach a goal that isn't their own, to bring back the achievement to the person who took no risks to get what they wanted, who then wears the achievement that is the culmination of someone else's hard work around their neck like gold.

His fingers are too long and when he talks he uses them to point out moments in his sentences. When he does, as the tips of his spindly fingers touch the words his mouth forms, his words turn dark before my eyes and disintegrate like twisted people caught embracing the metallic surface of a detonating atomic bomb, then his breath blows away the ashes making way for fresh words.

I listened to the crashing thundering of a tiny tear tumbling like a wave down her beautiful face.

He brings the cigarette butt to his mouth and lights up. He breathes in, and coughs; a rattling helicopter with a broken blade crashing into a herd of trombone playing sheep falling off a cliff into a DIY shop with a discount on spanners.

They put money into attack, by calling it defence.

The days and the light feel like brief moments of torture, put here to remind us of what we don't have any more. Joy is instantaneous, that, is the wonder of joy. Misery and suffering sneak up on someone like a bastard. They drip into your brain slowly, over time. Until one morning you wake up crying and you have no idea why.

The sharpest tools in the box are not always the best tools for the job.

Smile sometimes: it won't add years to your life, but it will add life to your years.

Without a passport humans wouldn't know where they're from, who they are or who their enemy is, and their enemy wouldn't know why they had an enemy, what language they spoke, and where best to avoid.
The passport is said to be what makes them free, but if freedom is given, freedom cannot be free.

Humans are born free then put into cages, then convinced freedom is what being in a cage is, and what freedom is, is being in a cage.

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.

People that talk about living in the real world don't even enjoy living in the real world.

We only borrow the breaths we take in life. Every breath we borrow we give back, including our last. In the end, no matter how we lived, we all die feeling owed.

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.

Lies are ants, the truth is the sun, and questions are a magnifying glass waiting to be picked up by the curious.

All the best bits of a film happen when I'm looking down at my phone. Life, is similar.

If humans had nothing to fight for, they would fight for nothing.

Without the sleeping bag I'm just somebody up early in the morning, sitting under a tree. With the sleeping bag I'm nobody up early, sitting under a tree: a slight, but important difference in how I'll be perceived.