A Man Kills The Thing He Loves,

Even Winter — The Hardest Season, The Most Implacable — Dreams, As February Creeps On, Of The Flame That Will Presently Melt It Away. Everything Tires With Time, And Starts To Seek Some Opposition, To Save It From Itself.

It’s Only When You’ve Lost Someone That You Realize The Nonsense Of That Phrase “it’s A Small World”. It Isn’t. It’s A Vast, Devouring World, Especially If You’re Alone.

Witch, Do This For Me, Find Me A Moon Made Of Longing. Then Cut It Sliver Thin, And Having Cut It, Hang It High Above My Beloved's House, So That She May Look Up Tonight And See It, And Seeing It, Sigh For Me As I Sigh For Her, Moon Or No Moon.

I Firmly Believe That A Story Is Only As Good As The Villain.

The Extraordinary's The Norm.