I Can Imagine Anything Except Having No

Every Messiah Fails, The Moment He Tries To Redeem Himself.

I Don't Care What Is Written," Meyer Landsman Says. "i Don't Care What Supposedly Got Promised To Some Sandal-wearing Idiot Whose Claim To Fame Is That He Was Ready To Cut His Own Son's Throat For The Sake Of A Hare-brained Idea. I Don't Care About Red Heifers And Patriarchs And Locusts. A Bunch Of Old Bones In The Sand. My Homeland Is In My Hat. It's In My Ex-wife's Tote Bag.

Horror Grows Impatient, Rhetorically, With The Stoic Fatalism Of Ecclesiastes. That We Are All Going To Die, That Death Mocks And Cancels Every One Of Our Acts And Attainments And Every Moment Of Our Life Histories, This Knowledge Is To Storytelling What Rust Is To Oxidation; The Writer Of Horror Holds With Those Who Favor Fire. The Horror Writer Is Not Content To Report On Death As The Universal System Of Human Weather; He Or She Chases Tornadoes. Horror Is Stoicism With A Taste For Spectacle.

I’d Spent My Whole Life Waiting To Awake On An Ordinary Morning In The Town That Was Destined To Be My Home, In The Arms Of The Woman I Was Destined To Love, Knowing The People And Doing The Work That Would Make Up The Changing But Essentially Invariable Landscape Of My Particular Destiny.

A Delicate, Inexorable Lattice Of Inferences Began To Assemble Themselves, Like A Crystal, In The Old Man's Mind, Shivering, Catching The Light In Glints And Surmises.