. . . he recommended to all those who might be impressed with a sense of their importance to bury a copy or copies of each work properly...

Give us a break, immortal gods!

. . . the liver is the seat of doubt

Empires still had many millennia to go.

Renounce the old, then, flaunt the damnèd new!

Don't ever listen to the news.

. . . on our phones, the shit-faced dead Squeak and gibber beside each bed.

The quotidian leaves me queasy!

He dreamed that a kindly sword-wielding god cut off his head and replaced it with an exact replica.

Designer winding sheets concealing Shrouds for ghosts, prêt-à-porter.

Time's careening to infinity—it’ll be midnight soon.

A rose has thorns. So it must prick.

A million years from now, anteater savants may wonder who we were.

But who might wonder where he's been, Or even notice that he's gone?

What did I care—at only 1!— Who enjoyed the autumn sun?