The Joke Is, We All Have The

People Die', She Says. 'people Tear Down Houses. But Furniture, Fine, Beautiful Furniture, It Just Goes On And On, Surviving Everything.' She Says, 'armoires Are The Cockroaches Of Our Culture.

You’ve Thrown Down The Gauntlet. You’ve Brought My Wrath Down Upon Your House. Now, To Prove That I Exist I Must Kill You. As The Child Outlives The Father, So Must The Character Bury The Author. If You Are, In Fact, My Continuing Author, Then Killing You Will End My Existence As Well. Small Loss. Such A Life, As Your Puppet, Is Not Worth Living. But… If I Destroy You And Your Dreck Script, And I Still Exist… Then My Existence Will Be Glorious, For I Will Become My Own Master.

Our Real Discoveries Come From Chaos.

As The Child Outlives The Father,so Must The Character Bury The Author.

It's Not Enough To Be Numbered With The Grains Of Sand On The Beach And The Stars In The Sky.