I Don't Wish To Inhabit The Human

Timmy, Who Made A Daring Escape, Also Made A Mistake Of Paying The Taxi Driver With A Check Made Out Of Toilet Paper.

Death Is A Dramatic Accomplishment Of Absence; Language May Be Almost As Effective.

Life Is Hell, But At Least There Are Prizes. Or So One Thought.

So We Went To Bed, Assaulted By Sleep That Fumed At Us From Medicine Glasses, Or Was Wielded From Small Sweet-coated Tablets -- Dainty Bricks Of Dream Wrapped In The Silk Stockings Of Oblivion.

The Strain Of Constant Adaptation To So Many Fearful Events And Discoveries Is Already Too Much To Bear With Sanity; One Has To Keep Pretending To Slip Successfully Into The New Mould; A Time Will Come When The Tailored And Camouflaged Mind Breaks Beneath The Burden; The Stick Insect In Our Brains No Longer Cares To Resemble A Twig On The Same Habitual Human Tree In The Mere Hope That It May Survive Extinction.