It Rubs The Lotion On Its Skin.

But The Face On The Pillow, Rosy In The Firelight, Is Certainly That Of Clarice Starling, And She Sleeps Deeply, Sweetly, In The Silence Of The Lambs.

I Have No Interest In Understanding Sheep, Only Eating Them.

We Routinely Leave Our Small Children In Day Care Among Strangers. At The Same Time, In Our Guilt We Evince Paranoia About Strangers And Foster Fear In Children.

Life's Too Slippery For Books, Clarice; Anger Appears As Lust, Lupus Presents As Hives.

There Is No Murder. We Make Murder, And It Matters Only To Us.