A Hope Fulfilled Is Already Half A

Every Messiah Fails, The Moment He Tries To Redeem Himself.

Bina, Thank You. Bina, Listen, This Guy. His Name Wasn't Lasker. This Guy-' She Puts A Hand To His Mouth. She Has Not Touched Him In Three Years. It Probably Would Be Too Much To Say That He Feels The Darkness Lift At The Touch Of Her Fingertips Against His Lips. But It Shivers, And Light Bleeds In Among The Cracks.

His Dreams Had Always Been Houdiniesque: They Were The Dreams Of A Pupa Struggling In Its Blind Cocoon, Mad For A Taste Of Light And Air.

See You In The Funny Papers," He Said. Jaunty, He Reminded Himself; Always Jaunty. In My Panache Is Their Hope For Salvation.

Horror Grows Impatient, Rhetorically, With The Stoic Fatalism Of Ecclesiastes. That We Are All Going To Die, That Death Mocks And Cancels Every One Of Our Acts And Attainments And Every Moment Of Our Life Histories, This Knowledge Is To Storytelling What Rust Is To Oxidation; The Writer Of Horror Holds With Those Who Favor Fire. The Horror Writer Is Not Content To Report On Death As The Universal System Of Human Weather; He Or She Chases Tornadoes. Horror Is Stoicism With A Taste For Spectacle.