I Love Crime, I Love Mysteries, And

Roland Had Taught Him That Self-deception Was Nothing But Pride In Disguise, An Indulgence To Be Denied.

God Always Punishes Us For What We Can't Imagine.

This Inhuman Place Makes Human Monsters.

Art Is The Concrete Artifact Of Faith And Expectation, The Realization Of A World That Would Otherwise Be Little More Than A Veil Of Pointless Consciousness Stretched Over A Gulf Of Mystery.

And Then Woe Is You, Pauly. Woe To The Max.