My Imagination Is My Polestar; I Steer

I Was Cured In My New Infamy Of All The Tired Wisdom Of Age. I Would Never Weary Into That Tired State Again - -i Swore To Myself, I Would Always Be This Raw, Wet Child Hereafter.

Your Flesh Is Killing Your Spirit. You Have Forsaken Yourself.

Nothing Ever Begins. There Is No First Moment; No Single Word Or Place From Which This Or Any Story Springs. The Threads Can Always Be Traced Back To Some Earlier Tale, And The Tales That Preceded That; Though As The Narrator's Voice Recedes The Connections Will Seem To Grow More Tenuous, For Each Age Will Want The Tale Told As If It Were Of Its Own Making.

She Had Opened A Door... And Now She Was Walking With Demons. And At The End Of Her Travels, She Would Have Her Revenge... Pain Had Made A Sadist Of Her.

Behind Their Eyes The Hope Was Sickening And In Many, Dead. They Lived From Event To Event With A Subtle Terror Of The Gap Between, Filling Up Their Lives With Distractions To Avoid The Emptiness Where Curiosity Should Have Been.