Nothing Made Me Happen. I Happened.

The Tragedy Is Not To Die, But To Be Wasted.

Shiloh Isn’t Haunted – Men Are Haunted. Shiloh Doesn’t Care.

Life's Too Slippery For Books, Clarice; Anger Appears As Lust, Lupus Presents As Hives.

The Very Air Had Screams Smeared On It. He Flinched From The Noise In This Silent Room.

Spaces Devoted To Hannibal Lecter’s Earliest Years Differ From The Other Archives In Being Incomplete. Some Are Static Scenes, Fragmentary, Like Painted Attic Shards Held Together By Blank Plaster. Other Rooms Hold Sound And Motion, Great Snakes Wrestling And Heaving In The Dark And Lit In Flashes. Pleas And Screaming Fill Some Places On The Grounds Where Hannibal Himself Cannot Go. But The Corridors Do Not Echo Screaming, And There Is Music If You Like.