“Time that is moved by little fidget wheels Is not myTime, the flood that does not flow.”

Between the double and the single bell Of a ship’s hour, between a round of bells From the dark warship riding there below

I have lived many lives, and this one life Of Joe, long dead, who lives between five bells.

So, there I was, tied to an altar made from outdated encyclopedias, about to get sacrificed to the dark powers by a cult of evil Librarians.

I’m a Communist by day and a Catholic as soon as it gets dark.

Then I saw a small dark dot enter the lower left corner of the vision. It floated up a ways and then suddenly disappeared.

In the dark times Will there also be singing? Yes, there will also be singing. About the dark times.

I am hopelessly divided between the dark and the good, the rebel and the saint, the sex maniac and the monk, the poet and the priest, the demagogue and the populist. Pen to paper, I put it all down – I’m out on a limb here, so watch my back.

Since September it’s just gotten colder and colder. There’s less daylight now, I’ve noticed too. This can only mean one thing – the sun is going out. In a few more months the Earth will be a dark and lifeless ball of ice. Dad says the sun isn’t going out.

The classic comedian says there’s nothing that’s taboo; if you laugh at one thing you’ve got to laugh at everything, that comedy is taking people to dark areas and showing them the light.

There’s a terrible sense of dread filtering across America at the moment and it’s not simply because of the continuing fear of terrorism and the fact that the nation is at war. It’s more frightening than that.