All Artists Are Two-headed Calves.

The Way His Plump Hand Clutched At Her Hip Seemed Somehow Improper; Not Morally, Aesthetically.

Are The Dead As Lonesome As The Living?

[t]he Army Of Wrongness Rampant In The World Might As Well March Over Me.

I Told You: You Can Make Yourself Love Anybody.

You Can Love Somebody Without It Being Like That. You Keep Them A Stranger, A Stranger Who's A Friend.