We’re both thieves, Harvey Swick. I take time. You take lives. But in the end we’re the same: both Thieves of Always.
You’ll learn, honey. Love can be the best thing in life. And it can be the worst. The absolute worst.
Perhaps a wiser eye than hers would be able to read tomorrow in tonight’s stars, but where was the fun in that? It was better not to know. Better to be alive in the Here and the Now – in this bright, laughing moment – and let the Hours to come take care of themselves.
The great grey beast February had eaten Harvey Swick alive.
After all, where can the glorious, the goofy, and the god-like stand shoulder to shoulder?
I’ve never worked where it was hard to be gay. Besides, being gay is a spectacular irrelevance to getting on with your life.
Behind their eyes the hope was sickening and in many, dead. They lived from event to event with a subtle terror of the gap between, filling up their lives with distractions to avoid the emptiness where curiosity should have been.
To you who have never died, may I say: Welcome to the world!
We are the star and the darkness it peirces.
Walk with care in dark places, and do not put your faith in anyone who promises you the forgiveness of the Lord or a certain place in Paradise.
At best you can hold death at bay, you can pretend it isn’t there; but to deny it totally is a sickness. And I think that horror fiction is one of the ways to approach these problems, and, perversely perhaps, to enjoy a vicarious confrontation with them.
Sooner or later even the most ambitious glutton must crawl away and seek the solace of the vomitorium.
Words are sexier than flesh.
Believe me, when I say; There are no two powers That command the soul. One is God The other is the tide. -Anon From the novel Abarat.
Writing about the unholy is one way of writing about what is sacred.
You have to taste the sour urine before you break the jug.
Leavening the flat bread of what we know, with the yeast of what we dream may come to pass.
Your flesh is killing your spirit. You have forsaken yourself.
We each die countless little deaths on our way to the last. We die out of shame as humiliation. We perish from despair. And, of course, we die for love.
I’ve dealt with a lot of producers who were pricks and I’m determined not to be that.
I never want to be the producer that I too often got.