The More People You Love,

Writing Is Like Sausage Making In My View; You'll All Be Happier In The End If You Just Eat The Final Product Without Knowing What's Gone Into It.

Even The Sky Was Grey. Grey And Grey And Greyer. The Whole World Grey, Everywhere You Look, Everything Grey Except The Eyes Of The Bride. The Eyes Of The Bride Were Brown. Big And Brown And Full Of Fear.

Why Should Death Make A Man Truthful, Or Even Clever? The Dead Are Likely Dull Fellows, Full Of Tedious Complaints - The Ground's Too Cold, My Gravestone Should Be Larger, Why Does He Get More Worms Than I Do.

What Is Dead May Never Die, But Rises Again, Stronger And Harder.

She Just Laughed In His Face And Told Him She'd Sooner Crawl In A Bed With His Father's Leeches Before She'd Crawl In One With Him. She Stopped Laughing When He Put His Knife In Her.