- And You Are Truly Human Now.

I'll Tell You Something. Once I Was Very Fond Of A Poem By Emily Dickinson Or Somebody. I Only Remember One Line Of It, But It Goes, 'the Soul Selects Her Own Society.' I Used To Tell It To Everybody. Once I Quoted It To A Friend Of Mine, And He Said, 'maybe, But The Body Gets Thrown Into Bed With The Goddamnedest People.

But I Must Go On," Said The Lady Amalthea, "for It Is Never Finished. Even When I Wake, I Cannot Tell What Is Real, And What I Am Dreaming As I Move And Speak And Eat My Dinner. I Remember What Cannot Have Happened, And Forget Something That Is Happening To Me Know. People Look At Me As Though I Should Know Them, And I Do Know Them In The Dream, And Always The Fire Draws Me Nearer, Though I Am Awake—

Real Magic Can Never Be Made By Offering Someone Else's Liver. You Must Tear Out Your Own, And Not Expect To Get It Back.

How's The Angel Of Death Supposed To Do His Job With Clipped Wings?

A Clock Is Not Time; It's Numbers And Springs. Pay It No Mind.