The Morning Air Was Dark With The

Fantasy Is Silver And Scarlet, Indigo And Azure, Obsidian Veined With Gold And Lapis Lazuli. Reality Is Plywood And Plastic, Done Up In Mud Brown And Olive Drab. Fantasy Tastes Of Habaneros And Honey, Cinnamon And Cloves, Rare Red Meat And Wines As Sweet As Summer. Reality Is Beans And Tofu, And Ashes At The End.

Better To Mock The Game Than To Play And Lose.

Drowning Was Bad Enough. But Drowning Sad And Sober, That's Too Cruel.

One Voice May Speak You False, But In Many There Is Always Truth To Be Found.

The Distinction Between Literary And Genre Fiction Is Stupid And Pernicious. It Dates Back To A Feud Between Robert Louis Stevenson And Henry James. James Won, And It Split Literature Into Two Streams. But It's A Totally False Dichotomy.