A Broken Heart Is Never A Tragedy.

I Think It's One Of The Scars In Our Culture That We Have Too High An Opinion Of Ourselves. We Align Ourselves With The Angels Instead Of The Higher Primates.

He Is The Intermediary Between Us, His Audience, The Living, And They, The Dolls, The Undead, Who Cannot Live At All And Yet Who Mimic The Living In Every Detail Since, Though They Cannot Speak Or Weep, Still They Project Those Signals Of Signification We Instantly Recognize As Language.

With That, The Poignant Charm Vanished. Inside The Fifth Machine, All Was Rampant Malignity. Deformed Flowers Thrust Monstrous Horned Tusks And Trumpets Ending In Blaring Teeth Through The Crimson Walls, Rending Them; The Ravenous Garden Slavered Over Its Prey And Every Brick Was Shown In The Act Of Falling. Amid The Violence Of This Transformation, The Oblivion Of The Embrace Went On. The Awakened Girl, In All Her Youthful Loveliness, Still Clasped In The Arms Of A Lover From Whom All The Flesh Had Fallen. He Was A Grinning Skeleton.

I Know That Whenever A Group Of Women Are Gathered Together, The Grandmother Always Makes A Phantom Appearance, Hovering Above Them.

Love Is Desire Sustained By Unfulfilment.