Always, Worlds Within Worlds.

You Cut Up A Thing That's Alive And Beautiful To Find Out How It's Alive And Why It's Beautiful, And Before You Know It, It's Neither Of Those Things, And You're Standing There With Blood On Your Face And Tears In Your Sight And Only The Terrible Ache Of Guilt To Show For It.

The World Had Seen So Many Ages: The Age Of Enlightenment; Of Reformation; Of Reason. Now, At Last, The Age Of Desire. And After This, An End To Ages; An End, Perhaps, To Everything.

Maybe The Man Had Taken The Wrong Turning, But At Least He'd Travelled Some Extraordinary Roads.

Nothing Ever Begins. There Is No First Moment; No Single Word Or Place From Which This Or Any Other Story Springs.

Writing About The Unholy Is One Way Of Writing About What Is Sacred.