And An Inky-colored Despair Of Rejection Enveloped

People Always Stay The Age That They Died At. My Big Brother Died Of Leukemia When I Was Six. He Was Eight. Now When I Think Of Him, He's Always Eight, And He's Still My Big Brother. He Never Changes, And The Part Of Me That Remembers Him Never Changes.

She's Evil. Evil, Evil, Evil. I Want To See Her Naked.

It Was An Eight-harlot Inn, If That's How You Measure An Inn. (i Understand That Now They Measure Inns In Stars. We Are In A Four-star Inn Right Now. I Don't Know What The Conversion From Harlots To Stars Is.)

Hope Is Merely Another Face Of Desire.

If You Think Anyone Is Sane You Just Don’t Know Enough About Them. The Key — And This Is Very Relevant In Our Case — Is To Find Someone Whose Insanity Dovetails With Your Own.