He'd half meant to speak but those eyes had altered the world forever in the space of a heartbeat.

My perfect day is sitting in a room with some blank paper. That's heaven. That's gold, and anything else is just a waste of time.

Do you have any notion of how goddamned crazy you are?

But I didn't know what to say to him. What do you say to a man that by his own admission has no soul? Why would you say anything?

By day the banished sun circles the earth like a grieving mother with a lamp.

The small wad of burning paper drew down to a wisp of flame and then died out leaving a faint pattern for just a moment in the incandescence like the shape of a flower, a molten rose. Then all was dark again.

Rage is really only for the good days. The truth is there's little of that left. the truth is that the forms I see have been slowly emptied out. They no longer have any content. They are shapes only. A train, a wall, a world. Or a man. A thing dangling in senseless articulation in a howling void. No meaning to its life. Its words. Why would I seek the company of such a thing? Why?