The First Horror Is There's Horror. The

I Hated The Words. Each One Was Like A Big Live Insect In My Mouth.

I'll Tell You Something,' She Said. 'i'm Not Sure I Ever Really Liked Him.' Adam?' I Said. 'i Don't Blame You.' 'not Adam,' She Said, Struggling To Swallow A Greedily Chomped Chunk. 'god.

Poets Suffer Occasional Delusions Of Angelhood And Find Themselves Condemned To Express It In The Bric-a-brac Tongues Of The Human World. Lots Of Them Go Mad.

That's What Happens When You Keep A Secret From Someone You Love: You Start To Hate Them For Allowing You To Prove Your Own Willingness To Deceive Them.

My Mother Once Told Me She Thought Hell Would Be Nothing More Than Being Given A Glimpse Of God--then Having It Taken Away, Forever.