Midnight, and the clock strikes. It is Christmas Day, the werewolves birthday, the door of the solstice still wide enough open to let them all slink through.

You were the living image of the entire Platonic shadow show, an illusion that could fill my emptiness with marvellous, imaginary things as long as, just as long as, the movie lasted, and then all would all vanish.

If the Barbarians are destroyed, who will we then be able to blame for the bad things?

What a joy it is to dance and sing!

She stands and moves within the invisible pentacle of her own virginity. She is an unbroken egg: she is a sealed vessel; she has inside her a magic space the entrance to which is shut tight with a plug of membrane; she is a closed system; she does not know how to shiver.

Among the monsters, I am well hidden; who looks for a leaf in a forest?

Irish was a man of parts even if some of them didn't work too well.