I like the stars. It’s the illusion of permanence, I think. I mean, they’re always flaring up and caving in and going out. But from here, I can pretend… I can pretend that things last. I can pretend that lives last longer than moments. Gods come, and gods go. Mortals flicker and flash and fade.… Continue reading Neil Gaiman
By four o’clock, I’ve discounted suicide in favor of killing everyone else in the entire world instead. ― Warren Ellis, Transmetropolitan, Vol. 3: Year of the Bastard. (Vertigo; Cmc edition, September 1, 1999)
To absent friends, lost loves, old gods, and the season of mists; and may each and every one of us always give the devil his due. ― Neil Gaiman, The Sandman, Vol. 4: Season of Mists. (Vertigo; Gph edition, March 10, 1999) Originally published 1990.
Whenever the sun is shining, I feel obligated to play outside! ― Charles M. Schulz, The Complete Peanuts, Vol. 1: 1950-1952. (Fantagraphics; First Edition edition, May 17, 2004)
Death is a capricious thing. – Neil Gaiman, The Sandman #13. “The Doll’s House, Part 4: Men of Good Fortune” (Vertigo March 1990)
Her kiss is the deep ocean. Her kiss is not the deep ocean. Her kiss is the grey sky. Her kiss is a blind alley. Her kiss is her touch is her breath is her fingers is what remains after the laughing is over. Her kis is the black dog that follows you in the… Continue reading Neil Gaiman
It is said that scattered through Despair’s domain are a multitude of tiny windows, hanging in the void. Each window looks out onto a different scene, being, in our world, a mirror. Sometimes you will look into a mirror and feel the eyes of Despair upon you, feel her hook catch and snag on your… Continue reading Neil Gaiman
Your head’s like mine, like all our heads; big enough to contain every god and devil there ever was. Big enough to hold the weight of oceans and the turning stars. Whole universes fit in there! But what do we choose to keep in this miraculous cabinet? Little broken things, sad trinkets that we play… Continue reading Grant Morrison
What’s the name of the word for the precise moment when you realize that you’ve actually forgotten how it felt to make love to somebody you really liked a long time ago? ― Neil Gaiman, The Sandman, Vol. 7: Brief Lives. (Vertigo; Gph edition March 1, 1999) Originally published 1994.
For love is no part of the dreamworld. Love belongs to Desire, and Desire is always cruel. – Neil Gaiman, The Sandman, Vol. 2: The Doll’s House. (Vertigo; Gph edition March 10, 1999) Originally published June 1st 1990.