Twanty-two harrin’ and t’ree ship’s biscuits, muffined like! Ah, yew doan’t know what muffined biscuits be!

We cherish, too, the poppy red / That grows on fields where valor led; / It seems to signal to the skies / That blood of heroes never dies, / … / And now the torch and poppy red / We wear in honor of our dead. / Fear not that ye have died for naught; / We've learned the lesson that ye taught / In Flanders fields.

Sade therefore calls the pure time of suspended history marking an epoch a revolutionary regime; it is the time of the between-times where, between the old laws and the new, there reigns the silence of the absence of laws, an interval that corresponds precisely to the suspension of speech […]

They used to burn witches. How soon til we are burning homosexuals, the inchaste, or those who dance on Sundays?