All writers have this vague hope that the elves will come in the night and finish any stories.

Recounting the strange is like telling one's dreams: one can communicate the events of a dream$$$ but not the emotional content$$$ the way that a dream can colour one's entire day.

This is crazy$$$ said Shadow.<br/>"Like the rest of your life is sane? Give me a fucking break."

Never a possession$$$ always the possessor$$$ with skin as pale as smoke$$$ and eyes tawny and sharp as yellow wine: Desire is everything you've ever wanted. Whoever you are. Whatever you are. Everything.

Never trust a demon. He has a hundred motives for anything he does ... Ninety-nine of them$$$ at least$$$ are malevolent.

What should I believe? thought Shadow$$$ and the voice came back to him from somewhere deep beneath the world$$$ in a bass rumble: Believe everything.

There's a but$$$ isn't there? said Coraline. "I can feel it. Like a rain cloud."

Be hole$$$ be dust$$$ be dream$$$ be wind<br/>Be night$$$ be dark$$$ be wish$$$ be mind$$$<br/>Now slip$$$ now slide$$$ now move unseen$$$<br/>Above$$$ beneath$$$ betwixt$$$ between.

She said we all not only could know everything. We do. We just tell ourselves we don't to make it all bearable.

I was kidnapped by aliens$$$ they came down from outer space with ray guns$$$ but I fooled them by wearing a wig and laughing in a foreign accent$$$ and I escaped.