Losing The Possibility Of Something Is The

The Thread Has Snapped. No Sound Even To Mark The Breaking Let Alone The Fall. That Long Anticipated Disintegration, When The Darkest Angel Of All, The Horror Beyond All Horrors, Sits At Last Upon My Chest, Permanently Enfolding Me In Its Great Covering Wings, Black As Ink, Veined In Bees' Purple. A Creature Without A Voice. A Voice Without A Name. As Immortal As My Life. Come Here At Long Last To Summon The Wind.

We All Create Stories To Protect Ourselves.

Beautiful Women Are Always Drawn To Men They Think Will Keep Them Beautiful.

...and There You Have It, Another Body On The Floor Surrounded By Things That Don't Mean Much To Anyone Except To The One Who Can't Take Any Of Them Along.

Who Has Never Killed An Hour?