At night, when the objective world has slunk back into its cavern and left dreamers to their own, there come inspirations and capabilities impossible at any less magical and quiet hour. No one knows whether or not he is a writer unless he has tried writing at night.
Toil without song is like a weary journey without an end.
I was nearly unnerved at my proximity to a nameless thing at the bottom of a pit.
No new horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace.
Memories and possibilities are even more hideous than realities.
Heaven knows where I'll end up - but it's a safe bet that I'll never be at the top of anything! Nor do I particularly care to be.