Harlan Ellison

There was light filtering down from above, and we realized we must be very near the surface. But we didn’t try to crawl up to see.

He was Earth, and we were the fruit of that Earth; and though he had eaten us he would never digest us. We could not die.

I have no mouth. And I must scream.

To see an almost certain horrible death—you know how crowds all sit on the edge of their seats, praying subconsciously for a spectacular accident—and then to be whisked away from it so suddenly—brought to the edge of tragedy, and then to have their better natures win out, showing them how much nicer they always knew they were—that was the supreme thrill.

He had been an educated man, that was obvious, and there was a deep, infinite sadness about him that sometimes made me want to cry, just talking to him there.

“She was just a girl, Johnny. Just another girl, and I guess I was more in love with the idea of love, than with her.”

He nodded again. “Out here, on one of these, is Heaven. That’s where she is. I’ll find her.” He waved at the stars overhead. I followed his arm. Up here? Heaven? On an alien world? I didn’t say anything.

He could have teeped out of that noose at any moment, but he didn’t.

and if it continues to spiral, soon enough we will come to a time when we may contemplate

Eyes Of Dust

“In the kingdom of the blind, a one–eyed man is God.”