Seriously? You wont help me?Help yourself get killed? No$$$ I wont.

The foundation of success in life is good health.

Often people who are wonderful with animals aren't always terribly good with human beings.

A new social type was being created by the apartment building$$$ a cool$$$ unemotional personality impervious to the psychological pressures of high-rise life$$$ with minimal needs for privacy$$$ who thrived like an advanced species of machine in the neutral atmosphere. This was the sort of resident who was content to do nothing but sit in his over-priced apartment$$$ watch television with the sound turned down$$$ and wait for his neighbours to make a mistake.

Elaborate burial customs are a sure sign of decadence.

I'm a strong opponent of all religious belief....And supposedly 95% of Americans say they believe in God - that's worrying....Religions are Trojan horses which conceal profoundly strange psychopathy strains. There's no other explanation for them. The sheer fear of death has been the main engine of religions for a very long time.

First she would try to kill him$$$ but failing this give him food and her body$$$ breast-feed him back to a state of childishness and even$$$ perhaps$$$ feel affection for him. Then$$$ the moment he was asleep$$$ cut his throat. The synopsis of the ideal marriage.

Sex is now a conceptual act$$$ it's probably only in terms of the perversions that we can make contact with each other at all.

Art exists because reality is neither real nor significant.

Trying to exhaust himself$$$ Vaughan devised an endless almanac of terrifying wounds and insane collisions: The lungs of elderly men punctured by door-handles; the chests of young women impaled on steering-columns; the cheek of handsome youths torn on the chromium latches of quarter-lights. To Vaughan$$$ these wounds formed the key to a new sexuality$$$ born from a perverse technology. The images of these wounds hung in the gallery of his mind$$$ like exhibits in the museum of a slaughterhouse.