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men on the crews would say that once you’d carried a dead person he would always be there, riding with you.

cassette rock and roll in one ear and door-gun fire in the other.

'pray for war' was written on the side of his helmet, and he was talking mostly to a man whose helmet name was 'swinging dick'.

the policeman saw him at the exposition of torture instruments. better to have encountered him at an orchid show.

the screaming was awful to hear, but a fitting overture for the faces that came out of the woods, drawn to the screams announcing dinner.

he began to feel afraid, but the very dreamlike quality of his fear told him this was not real.

his mouth pealed forth deafening screams that were beyond human auditory range.

he cocked a finger gravely at his temple, a small boy unconsciously burlesquing suicide.

in the very center of him a cold certainty was forming and the certainty was that he was losing his mind.

a living woman. how bizarre.

dolarhyde bore screams as a sculptor bears dust from the beaten stone.

variously weighted with lies, guns, and groceries, the three of them were a small and solemn troop.

he viewed his own mentality as grotesque but useful, like a chair made of antlers.

total disintegration of society is the necessary prerequisite for new growth

he’s the wolf screamin lonely in the night, he’s the blood stain on the stage.

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