The poets continually and sometimes wilfully mistake love. Love is the old slaughterer.
Things were going very fast now. Too fast to suit him. Fantasy and reality had merged.
He sat upon his throne, which is made of skulls.
...it was more like bleeding than crying.
Mister, we deal in lead.
Memories are contrary things; if you quit chasing them and turn your back, they often return on their own.