We Are Bound Together By The Sympathy

One Of The Things I Could Never Get Accustomed To In My Youth Was The Difference I Found Between Life And Literature.

We Were Always Loyal To Lost Causes...success For Us Is The Death Of The Intellect And Of The Imagination. ~ Professor Machugh

All Moanday, Tearday, Wailsday, Thumpsday, Frightday, Shatterday.

No Pen, No Ink, No Table, No Room, No Time, No Quiet, No Inclination.

Imagine Some Foul And Putrid Corpse That Has Lain Rotting And Decomposing In The Grave, A Jelly-like Mass Of Liquid Corruption. Imagine Such A Corpse A Prey To Flames, Devoured By The Fire Of Burning Brimstone And Giving Off Dense Choking Fumes Of Nauseous Loathsome Decomposition. And Then Imagine This Sickening Stench, Multiplied A Millionfold And A Millionfold Again From The Millions Upon Millions Of Fetid Carcasses Massed Together In The Reeking Darkness, A Huge And Rotting Human Fungus. Imagine All This, And You Will Have Some Idea Of The Horror Of The Stench Of Hell.