To You Who Have Never Died, May

There Is No Such Thing As Originality. It Has All Been Said Before, Suffered Before. If A Person Knows That, Is It Any Wonder Love Becomes Mechanical And Death Just A Scene To Be Shunned? There Is No Absolute Knowledge To Be Gained From Either. Just Another Ride On The Merry-go-round, Another Blurred Scene Of Faces Smiling And Faces Grieved.

We're Both Thieves, Harvey Swick. I Take Time. You Take Lives. But In The End We're The Same: Both Thieves Of Always.

In This Sense Love Is Of A Different Order To Any Other Phenomenon, For It May Be Both An Event And A Sign Of That Invisible Mechanism I Spoke Of Before; Perhaps The Finest Sign, The Most Certain. In It’s Throes We Need Neither Luck Nor Science. We Are The Wheel, And The Man Who Profits By It. We Are The Star, And The Darkness It Pierces. We Are The Butterfly, Brief And Beautiful.

Flesh Could Not Keep Its Glamour, Nor Eyes Their Sheen. They Would Go To Nothing Soon. But Monsters Are Forever.

To Dream In Isolation Can Be Properly Splendid To Be Sure; But To Dream In Company Seems To Me Infinitely Preferable.