Horror Fiction Shows Us That The Control

We’re Too Much Ourselves. Afraid Of Letting Go Of What We Are, In Case We Are Nothing, And Holding On So Tight, We Lose Everything Else.

Always, Worlds Within Worlds.

And In Time It Will Be As Though Men Had Never Come To This Perfect Corner Of The World-never Called It Paradise On Earth, Never Despoiled It With Their Dream Factories; And In The Golden Hush Of The Afternoon All That Will Be Heard Will Be The Flittering Of Dragonflies, And The Murmur Of Hummingbirds As They Pass From Bower To Bower, Looking For A Place To Sup Sweetness.

Nothing Happens Carelessly. We’re Not Brought Into The World Without Reason, Even Though We May Never Understand The Reason. An Infant That Lives An Hour, That Dies Before It Can Lay Eyes On Those Who Made It, Even That Soul Did Not Live Without Purpose: This Is My Sudden Certainty.

Midian Is Where The Monsters Go.