No sermon I have ever heard, of whatever breadth, however high it raises the tone of the season, however spangled with color or reason, is as real as your eye. I promise not to leave you high and dry but to give and take convulsive tribute. When love burns the chill of broken houses is sweeter. When love burns I think I feel no cold. Hatred gags on it.
Shame grows bold.
Ennui lies fainting, bleeding, on the stairs, and death grows cheery. The very flies drop dead in pairs. She took all this and her cheetah face into the gas station where the door closed behind her in a vapor of musk just as if I had never happened. The flesh of gods would not be so bland as frail communion wafer melting in the mouth or dry broken matzoth untasted on a plate. And discovers all with Invisible eyes.