Writing About The Unholy Is One Way

I Don't Take Accusations Of Selling Out Lightly.

Nothing Ever Begins. There Is No First Moment; No Single Word Or Place From Which This Or Any Other Story Springs.

A Soul Of Water A Soul Of Stone. A Soul By Name A Soul Unknown. The Hours Unmake Our Flesh Our Bone. The Soul Is All And All Alone!

We Are All Our Own Graveyards, I Believe; We Squat Amongst The Tombs Of The People We Were. If We're Healthy, Every Day Is A Celebration, A Day Of The Dead, In Which We Give Thanks For The Lives That We Lived, And If We Are Neurotic We Brood And Mourn And Wish That The Past Was Still Present.

We're Both Thieves, Harvey Swick. I Take Time. You Take Lives. But In The End We're The Same: Both Thieves Of Always.