Where In This Pukehole Can A Man

When One Has Nothing Left Make Ceremonies Out Of The Air And Breathe Upon Them.

The World To Come Must Be Composed Of What Is Past. No Other Material Is At Hand.

All The Time You Spend Tryin To Get Back What's Been Took From You There's More Goin Out The Door. After A While You Just Try And Get A Tourniquet On It.

If Much In The World Were Mystery The Limits Of That World Were Not, For It Was Without Measure Or Bound And There Were Contained Within It Creatures More Horrible Yet And Men Of Other Colors And Beings Which No Man Has Looked Upon And Yet Not Alien None Of It More Than Were Their Own Hearts Alien In Them, Whatever Wilderness Contained There And Whatever Beasts.

She Was Gone And The Coldness Of It Was Her Final Gift.