Hope is merely another face of desire.

She was an alien, really - a sort of eating, pooping, tantrum machine - and he didn't understand anything about her species.

Routine feeds the illusion of safety.

I am convinced by the events of the last few weeks that nefarious forces of people--unidentified but no less real--are threatening life as we know it, and in fact, may be bent on unraveling the very fabric of our existence.

Like God's own chocolate, I'd lick her shadow off a hot sidewalk

The gourney, the big file drawers of the dead, the instruments of dissection - this sure looked like the morgues in the movies. Something had gone seriously wrong while she slept.

The netherworld is timeless and unchanging, and boring -- much like a doctor's waiting room.