I looked at the Rorschach blot. I tried to pretend it looked like a spreading tree, shadows pooled beneath it, but it didn't. It looked more like a dead cat I once found, the fat, glistening grubs writhing blindly, squirming over each other, frantically tunneling away from the light. But even that is avoiding the real horror. The horror is this: In the end, it is simply a picture of empty meaningless blackness. We are alone. There is nothing else.

We're all puppets, Laurie. I'm just a puppet who can see the strings.

(dialogue between Dan 'Nite Owl' Dreiberg and Laurie 'Silk Spectre' Juspeczyk, two retired superheroes)

When you find yourself locked onto an unpleasant train of thought, heading for the places in your past where the screaming is unbearable, remember there's alwa…

It's the fault of those physicists and that synchronicity theory, every particle being connected with every other; you can't fart without changing the balance …

He sipped at a weak hock and seltzer As he gazed at the London skies Through the Nottingham lace of the curtains Or was it his bees-winged eyes?

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always (Still the dead one lay moaning) I was much too far out all my life And not waving but drowning.