Memory Sometimes Makes Merciful Deletions.

All I Want Is To Know Things. The Black Gulph Of The Infinite Is Before Me.

The Sea Can Bind Us To Her Many Moods, Whispering To Us By The Subtle Token Of A Shadow Or A Gleam Upon The Waves, And Hinting In These Ways Of Her Mournfulness Or Rejoicing. Always She Is Remembering Old Things, And These Memories, Though We May Not Grasp Them, Are Imparted To Us, So That We Share Her Gaiety Or Remorse.

It Is True That I Have Sent Six Bullets Through The Head Of My Best Friend, And Yet I Hope To Show By This Statement That I Am Not His Murderer.

I Shall Never Sleep Calmly Again When I Think Of The Horrors That Lurk Ceaselessly Behind Life In Time And In Space, And Of Those Unhallowed Blasphemies From Elder Stars Which Dream Beneath The Sea, Known And Favoured By A Nightmare Cult Ready And Eager To Loose Them Upon The World Whenever Another Earthquake Shall Heave Their Monstrous Stone City Again To The Sun And Air.

Pleasure To Me Is Wonder—the Unexplored, The Unexpected, The Thing That Is Hidden And The Changeless Thing That Lurks Behind Superficial Mutability.