I shall be dumped where the weed decays, And the rest is rust and stardust

...for the human brain can become the best torture house of all those it has invented, established and used in a millions of years, in millions of lands, on millions of howling creatures.

You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style.

It is a singular reaction, this sitting still and writing, writing, writing, or ruminating at length, which is much the same, really.

And she was mine, she was mine, the key was in my fist, my fist was in my pocket, she was mine.

I adore you, mon petit, and would never allow him to hurt you, no matter how gently or madly.

And really, the reason we think of death in celestial terms is that the visible firmament, especially at night (above our blacked-out Paris with the gaunt arches of its Boulevard Exelmans and the ceaseless Alpine gurgle of desolate latrines), is the most adequate and ever-present symbol of that vast silent explosion.