A Man Is An Angel That Has

On Some Other World, Possibly It Is Different. Better. There Are Clear Good And Evil Alternatives. Not These Obscure Admixtures, These Blends, With No Proper Tool By Which To Untangle The Components.

You Know How People Are About Not Taking Care Of An Animal; They Consider It Immoral And Antiempathic. I Mean, Technically It's Not A Crime Like It Was Right After Wwt But The Feeling's Still There.

The Distinction Between Sanity And Insanity Is Narrower Than A Razor’s Edge, Sharper Than A Hound’s Tooth, More Agile Than A Mule Deer. It Is More Elusive Than The Merest Phantom. Perhaps It Does Not Even Exist; Perhaps It Is A Phantom.

I Have Seen Myself Backward.

It Did Not Seem Possible That Wendy Wright Had Been Born Out Of Blood And Internal Organs Like Other People. In Proximity To Her He Felt Himself To Be A Squat, Oily, Sweating, Uneducated Nurt Whose Stomach Rattled And Whose Breath Wheezed. Near Her He Became Aware Of The Physical Mechanisms Which Kept Him Alive; Within Him Machinery, Pipes And Valves And Gas-compressors And Fan Belts Had To Chug Away At A Losing Task, A Labor Ultimately Doomed. Seeing Her Face, He Discovered That His Own Consisted Of A Garish Mask; Noticing Her Body Made Him Feel Like A Low-class Wind-up Toy.