“Next time you decide to moonbathe on the rooftop at midnight, do me a favor and put your jacket on.” I swung open the door. “Only if you put on your hat.” kicked off my shoes, removed my weapons, flung my bra [off...]

Night with her bedewy wings

The aggregated Soyle Death with his Mace petrific, cold and dry, As with a Trident smote, and fix’t as firm As Delos floating once; the rest his look Bound with Gorgonian rigor not to move, And with Asphaltic slime,

With teeth they smooth their work, as on it slips, And flecks of wool stick to their wither'd lips