Thy only authentic ending is the one provided here: John and Mary die, John and Mary die, John and Mary die.

You want the truth, of course. You want me to put two and two together. But two and two doesn’t necessarily get you the truth. Two and two equals a voice outside the window. Two and two equals the wind. The living bird is not its labeled bones.

There's blood, a taste I remember. It tastes of orange popsicles, penny gumballs, red licorice, gnawed hair, dirty ice.

It's in Macbeth: "The devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon." I seldom have occasion to pull it out, but it's ready and waiting!

Nevertheless, blood is thicker than water, as anyone knows who has tasted both.

Being edited is like falling face down into a threshing machine.

He needed to exist only in the present, without guilt, without expectation.