To Call You Excrement Would

So We Make Stories Of Our Own, In Fevered And Envious Imitation Of Our Maker, Hoping That We'll Tell, By Chance, What God Left Untold. And Finishing Our Tale, Come To Understand Why We Were Born.

I Think That Horror Fiction Is One Of The Ways To Approach These Problems Of Death.

If We Have Nothing To Do But Service Our Own Pleasure - Because Society Has Taught Us That's All We're Worth And We're Exiled From Positions Of Authority From Which We Could Actually Shape Society - Then We Just Become Hedonists. Eventually, Despite How Great It May Look On Saturday Night, Come Monday Morning There's Just Purposelessness.

The Paintings Of Francis Bacon To My Eye Are Very Beautiful. The Paintings Of Bosch Or Goya Are To My Eye Very Beautiful. I've Also Stood In Front Of Those Same Paintings With People Who've Said, 'let's Get On To The Botticellis As Soon As Possible.' I Have Lingered, Of Course.

What Worth Was A Man Who Could Not Be Haunted?