Tis the night—the night
Of the grave's delight,
And the warlocks are at their play;
Ye think that without,
The wild winds shout,
But no, it is they—it is they!

'Tis the night - the night Of the grave's delight, And the warlocks are at their play; Ye think that without The wild winds shout, But no, it is they - it is they.

Flowers are words Which even a babe may understand.

You don't have to suffer to be a poet; adolescence is enough suffering for anyone.

I met this six-year-old child, with this blank, pale, emotionless face, and the blackest eyes... the devil's eyes."

~Dr. Sam Loomis/Halloween

Henderson sighed. There was a time, he reflected, when the coming of this night meant something. A dark Europe, groaning in superstitious fear, dedicated this Eve to the grinning Unknown. A million doors had once been barred against the evil visitants, a million prayers mumbled, a million candles lit. There was something majestic about the idea, Henderson reflected.