Some Typewriters In Whitehall, In The Pentagon,

Oh, This Beer Here Is Cold, Cold And Hop-bitter, No Point Coming Up For Air, Gulp, Till It's All--hahhhh.

A Number Of Frail Girls... Prisoners In The Top Room Of A Circular Tower, Embroidering A Kind Of Tapestry Which Spilled Out The Slit Windows And Into A Void, Seeking Hopelessly To Fill The Void: For All The Other Buildings And Creatures, All The Waves, Ships And Forests Of The Earth Were Contained In This Tapestry, And The Tapestry Was The World.

Darkness Invades The Dreams Of The Glassblower. Of All The Unpleasantries His Dreams Grab In Out Of The Night Air, An Extinguished Light Is The Worst. Light In His Dreams, Was Always Hope: The Basic, Moral Hope. As The Contacts Break Helically Away, Hope Turns To Darkness, And The Glassblower Wakes Sharply Tonight Crying, "who? Who?"

What’s This? What Are The Antagonists Doing Here – Infiltrating Their Own Audience? Well, They’re Not Really. It’s Somebody Else’s Audience At The Moment, And These Nightly Spectacles Are An Appreciable Part Of The Darkside Hours Of Life Of The Rocket Capital. The Chances For Any Paradox Here, Really, Are Less Than You Think.

There Was No Difference Between The Behavior Of A God And The Operations Of Pure Chance.