It's Like Everyone Tells A Story About

For Most Practical Purposes Tarbean Had Two Pieces: Waterside And Hillside. Waterside Is Where People Are Poor. That Makes Them Beggars, Thieves, And Whores. Hillside Is Where People Are Rich. That Makes Them Solicitors, Politicians, And Courtesans.

You Are An Educated Man. You Know There Are No Such Things As Demons." Bast Smiled A Terrible Smile. "there Is Only My Kind." Bast Leaned Closer Still, Chronicler Smelled Flowers On His Breath. "you Are Not Wise Enough To Fear Me As I Should Be Feared. You Do Not Know The First Note Of The Music That Moves Me.

I Have No Balance. My Life Is A Hot Mess.

She Reached Up And Lay Her Hand On My Cheek. "you Have The Sweetest Face," She Said, Looking At Me Dreamily. "it's Like The Perfect Kitchen." I Fought Not To Smile. This Was The Delirium. She'd Fade In And Out Of It Before The Profound Exhaustion Dragged Her Down Into Unconsciousness. If You See Someone Spouting Nonsense To Themselves In An Alleyway In Tarbean, Odds Are They're Not Actually Crazy, Just A Sweet-eater Deranged By Too Much Denner. "a Kitchen?" "yes," She Said. "everything Matches And The Sugar Bowl Is Right Where It Should Be.

I Decided To Dub The Room With The Good Chairs My Lutery. Or Perhaps My Performatory. I Would Need A While To Come Up With Something Suitably Pretentious.