I've Never Suffered From Writer's Block. I

Nonetheless, Scranton Had Travelled In Space. He Had Known The Loneliness Of Separation From All Other Human Beings, He Had Gazed At The Empty Perspectives That I Myself Had Seen.

Yet She Felt An Impostor, And Already The Mask Had Begun To Bite Into Her Face.

The Catastrophe Story, Whoever May Tell It, Represents A Constructive And Positive Act By The Imagination Rather Than A Negative One, An Attempt To Confront The Terrifying Void Of A Patently Meaningless Universe By Challenging It At Its Own Game. [. . .] Each One Of These Fantasies Represents An Arraignment Of The Finite, An Attempt To Dismantle The Formal Structure Of Time And Space Which The Universe Wraps Around Us At The Moment We First Achieve Consciousness.

Elaborate Burial Customs Are A Sure Sign Of Decadence.

The Only Truly Alien Planet Is Earth.