Zombies Are The Liberal Nightmare. Here You

I've Held A Brain In My Hands, Which Is An Extraordinary Experience.

Spring, If It Lingers More Than A Week Beyond Its Span, Starts To Hunger For Summer To End The Days Of Perpetual Promise. Summer In Its Turn Soon Begins To Sweat For Something To Quench Its Heat, And The Mellowest Of Autumns Will Tire Of Gentility At Last, And Ache For A Quick Sharp Frost To Kill Its Fruitfulness. Even Winter — The Hardest Season, The Most Implacable — Dreams, As February Creeps On, Of The Flame That Will Presently Melt It Away. Everything Tires With Time, And Starts To Seek Some Opposition, To Save It From Itself.

But I Think Humans Are Innately Religious As A Species, So You Don't Need A Specific Excuse For Examining The Perversely Unholy.

I've Always Thought That The Most Extraordinary Special Effect You Could Do Is To Buy A Child At The Moment Of Its Birth, Sit It On A Little Chair And Say, "you'll Have Three Score Years And Ten," And Take A Photograph Every Minute. "and We'll Watch You And Photograph You For Ten Years After You Die, Then We'll Run The Film." Wouldn't That Be Extraordinary? We'd Watch This Thing Get Bigger And Bigger, And Flower To Become Extraordinary And Beautiful, Then Watch It Crumble, Decay, And Rot.

I Am A Man, And Men Are Animals Who Tell Stories. This Is A Gift From God, Who Spoke Our Species Into Being, But Left The End Of Our Story Untold. That Mystery Is Troubling To Us. How Could It Be Otherwise? Without The Final Part, We Think, How Are We To Make Sense Of All That Went Before: Which Is To Say, Our Lives? So We Make Stories Of Our Own, In Fevered And Envious Imitation Of Our Maker, Hoping That We'll Tell, By Chance, What God Left Untold. And Finishing Our Tale, Come To Understand Why We Were Born.