Is Not This World An Illusion? And

He Is The Intermediary Between Us, His Audience, The Living, And They, The Dolls, The Undead, Who Cannot Live At All And Yet Who Mimic The Living In Every Detail Since, Though They Cannot Speak Or Weep, Still They Project Those Signals Of Signification We Instantly Recognize As Language.

I See Her As A Series Of Marvellous Shapes Formed At Random In The Kaleidoscope Of Desire.

Midnight, And The Clock Strikes. It Is Christmas Day, The Werewolves Birthday, The Door Of The Solstice Still Wide Enough Open To Let Them All Slink Through.

She Stood Lost In Eternity Wearing A Crazy Dress, Watching The Immense Sky.

Stars On Our Door, Stars In Our Eyes, Stars Exploding In The Bits Of Our Brains Where The Common Sense Should Have Been