This Must Be A Real Horrorshow Film

Writers Are Rarely Their Own Best Critics, Nor Are Critics.

The Trombones Crunched Redgold Under My Bed, And Behind My Gulliver The Trumpets Three-wise Silverflamed, And There By The Door The Timps Rolling Through My Guts And Out Again Crunched Like Candy Thunder. Oh, It Was Wonder Of Wonders. And Then, A Bird Of Like Rarest Spun Heavenmetal, Or Like Silvery Wine Flowing In A Spaceship, Gravity All Nonsense Now, Came The Violin Solo Above All The Other Strings, And Those Strings Were Like A Cage Of Silk Around My Bed. Then Flute And Oboe Bored, Like Worms Of Like Platinum, Into The Thick Thick Toffee Gold And Silver. I Was In Such Bliss, My Brothers.

The Downtrodden Are The Great Creators Of Slang.

Literature Is All, Or Mostly, About Sex.

There Is A Satisfactory Boniness About Grammar Which The Flesh Of Sheer Vocabulary Requires Before It Can Become A Vertebrate And Walk The Earth.