A Man Must Be Sacrificed Now And

My Heart Is Tuned To Sorrow, And The Strings Vibrate Most Readily To Minor Chords, Searching And Sad; My Mind Is Stuffed With Words Which Voice The Passion And The Ache Of Things: Illusions Beating With Their Baffled Wings Against The Walls Of Circumstance.

Don’t Ask A Writer What He’s Working On. It’s Like Asking Someone With Cancer On The Progress Of His Disease.

Witches Are Moon-birds, Witches Are The Women Of The False, Beautiful Moon.

Happiness, To Some, Elation; Is, To Others, Mere Stagnation.

Freighted With Hope, Crimsoned With Joy, We Scatter The Leaves Of Our Opening Rose.