Big Job Doom Thing, Page 50.

Jon Fat Beast was the fat bastard. THE fat bastard. He'd come onstage before us to abuse the audience, abuse the band, get his knob out, wobble his enormous belly, cover himself in squirty cream, have beer thrown at him, and eventually introduce us before running (yes, I know) to the back of the hall to operate the lighting desk. I loved watching the Beast from the stage, banging away on the lighting desk like he was a mad classical pianist playing the concert of his life and raising his arms aloft like he'd just won the FA cup.

My Gyp, Page 147.

Guilt of man assuages guilt of the deity.

Olden Infolds, Page 369.

The millennium is a permanent millennium.

En Poll, Page 10.

They say there are some holes in the world in these parts.

Soak Bet Fetish, Page 4.

The grass looked as if it had been left out all night.

. . .

En Poll, Page 9.

He catches the ozone bass of the rain clouds, and the tart mid-range sterility of the grass and earth, and some high, treble note he can't place. But nothing dangerous, nothing human or half-human. Not yet.

Olden Infolds, Page 366.

Most places just are something, but America had to mean something too, hence her vulnerability -- to make-believe, to false memory, false destiny. And finally it looked as though the riveting struggle with illusion was over, and America had lost.

My Gyp, Page 97.

Mental ill male tunnel path digging with elbows, driving with own knees so escape, possible able spread insanity infection.

Parred Pity, Page 239.

We carry our family inside of us. It's who we are.

My Gyp, Page 91.

Blue sky, no cloud mask against admiration of sun.

Big Job Doom Thing, Page 45.

Maybe God only moves stuff around when I'm not looking.