While departing on a business trip, a giant cube materializes and his plane is taken undamaged into the mysterious, indestructible structure.

All these phenomena made up a complete world, and in this world he was fulfilling all his moral obligations and fulfilling them with a delicious sense of virtue merely by keeping these ripples in mind; and the drip-drop, drip-drop of the tinkling rivulet at his elbow was the voice of the queer imperative which he obeyed.

Sensitive reader, start not at the apparition! Oxford is a plexus of anomalies.

“Let’s bring Madonna some yummies,” she trilled from the garden the other day. She was in little pink shorts and a white T-shirt with toenails red as tomatoes, as she dug up some carrots for her pet donkey.

The MIT guy then muttered that sometimes it takes a tough man to make a tender chicken, but the New Jersey guy didn’t understand (I’m not sure I do either).

The nervous excitement manifested by these two was so free from traditional sentimentality and normal passion, so dominated by a certain cold-blooded and elemental lechery, that something in the fibrous interstices of the old tree against which they leaned was aroused by it and responded to it.

The words emanated from a pale, insubstantial husk upon the air, a husk that resembled the cast-off skin of a snake or the yet more fragile skin of a newt, diaphanous and yet flaccid, a form, a shape, a human transparency, limned upon the darkness above the great chair to the left of the fireplace. The words were almost as faint as the sub-human breathings of the plants in the conservatory. They were like the creakings of chairs after people have left a room for hours. They were like the opening and shutting of a door in an empty house. They were like the groan of a dead branch in an unfrequented shrubbery at the edge of a forsaken garden. They were like the whistle of the wind in a ruined clock-tower, a clock-tower without bell or balustrade, bare to the rainy sky, white with the droppings of jackdaws and starlings, forgetful of its past, without a future save that of anonymous dissolution. They were like words murmured in a ruined court where water from broken cisterns drips disconsolately upon darkening stones, while one shapeless idol talks to another shapeless idol as the night falls. They were like the murmurs of forgotten worm-eaten boards, lying under a dark, swift stream, boards that once were the mossy spokes of some old water-mill and in their day have caught the gleam of many a morning sun but now are hardly noticeable even to swimming water-rats.

I along with my fellow NSA members brave the streets in search of Bodhisattvas who will in the near future fight alongside us for World Peace.

Despite being one of the most critically lauded directors in cinema; despite winning two Oscars for screenwriting and the Palme d’Or; despite being continually successful at the box office; despite talking explicitly with God in his movies; despite centering his most famous film around a theological discussion; despite all these things, Quentin Tarantino is rarely seriously discussed in Christian journalism. And this is completely understandable.

ERROR: “no handle in "letsFuck” for body w/ Spec Orb".