I Love It When My Books Cause

To Be Closed From Everything, And Yet To Feel, To Think...this Is The Truth Of Hell, Stripped Of Its Gaudy Medievalisms. This Loss Of Contact.

Life Is What You Celebrate. All Of It. Even Its End.

She Always Had That About Her, That Look Of Otherness, Of Eyes That See Things Much Too Far, And Of Thoughts That Wander Off The Edge Of The World.

Death Should Be A Celebration. Like A Birthday. I Want To Go Up Like A Rocket When My Time Comes, And Fall Down In A Cloud Of Stars, And Hear Everyone Go: Ahh!

I Could Do With A Bit More Excess. From Now On I'm Going To Be Immoderate--and Volatile--i Shall Enjoy Loud Music And Lurid Poetry. I Shall Be Rampant.