It takes, unhappily, no more than a desk and writing supplies to turn any room into a confessional.
They plot, they plot, sleeping or afoot they never let up.
You may never get to touch the Master, but you can tickle his creatures.
Every weirdo in the world is on my wavelength.
Shall I project a world?
Oh, this beer here is cold, cold and hop-bitter, no point coming up for air, gulp, till it's all--hahhhh.