Once a man is truly dead and carried pale and cold across the Styx--once Old Bones has put an arm about his shoulders and walked him through the Gate into Darkness--might Science yet summon him back?

Hope is the beautiful dream of the soul.

Seven times have I despised my soul: The sixth time when she despised the ugliness of a face, and knew not that it was one of her own masks.

Blue screen of death: she'd crashed his system. Oh, well. Boys were so unstable that way, full of buggy, self-contradictory code, pathetically unoptimized.

What he was after hangs between the visible and the invisible, between the here and now and the seemingly elsewhere.

He had learned Lesson One: Let French women tell you what they want.

A Bible and a newspaper in every house, a good school in every district; all studied and appreciated as they merit; are the principal support of virtue, morality, and civil liberty.

Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.

I shot him the bird. (Get it? I shot him the—never mind.)

Behind the dim unknown, Standeth God with the shadow, keeping watch above his own.

I yearn for things, but at the same time I am just peaceful.