Dreams tend to turn real in flint shadows and squint sunshine at morning when the promising young men appear slack jawed and drunk with unsleep and boredom: the young girls - how often young - are type tip tapping at bright lighted desks escaping, waking, some other kind of whoredom.

And now he's made The Number 23, a cheapie $30 million horror film about a man consumed with numerology.

Where our apt used to be they built a fancy condominium high-rise. Which at a lowly income none of us could ever really quite afford.

They were the head-strong horses, who hurried Octavius […] along, and were deaf to his reclaiming them.