He fell in love with her hair. He wanted it. He wanted her. And so he took her...to Hawaii on a package vacation. But that wasn't enough for her. On dark, wet and windy nights the villagers could hear her wailing lament. (Heathcliff)

Where, Oh where has my little dog gone? And where is my Prince? And which is which? And so the years passed until one day she saw Thor. Do you know Thor? Northern European. Big on thunder. Not a refined kind of guy. O.K., he eats with his mouth open. But what can you expect from a primeval deity. You want manners, go for Talleyrand. This girl wanted Thor. The moment she laid eyes on him, she said, "I've got to have him. I've absolutely got to have him." And so she went out and she got him. And we said, "Like why? Why Thor? And she said "Thor is so strong, so mighty. Thor is the perfect thing for that Victorian nightie I've been waiting to wear. And this time I plan to suffer, beautifully. I know you'll understand."
"So Hey!" we said, "Go for it. Do it in the majors." But maybe we should have told her. He's rough. He's on the hoof. And that's not what we want is it! It's the impression of "sauvage" that is tantalizing. The reality is not appealing. The reality is impolite and smells bad.

Hark! The millennium is nigh. Bring on the tellers of fortunes, the sorcerers, the mountebanks, the hypnotists, the purveyors of eternal youth. Drape me in chains of fancy, mainline me with quicksilver, entomb me in a crystal cave so I can sleep alone for a thousand years. But not alas forever. For the worm that flies in the night in the howling storm, will find out my bed of crimson joy. And his dark love will my dreams destroy. (You won't be lonely any more)

So what's next? Which brute should we honour? Whose pride should we swell? What lies should we buttress with a faith that will move mountains. Whose head can we hammer? Whose heart can we crush? Whose flesh can we feed on? Whose self-respect can we grind away to nothing? More, more, a thousand times more. I'm still not satisfied.

Have you ever noticed there's no empathy for the object of desire? Take food for example. Yummy. Smells so nice reminds you of mom. Makes you feel infantile. I want it. That's mine. Mine, mine, mine. I've got my hand on it, my brand on it. That's no longer in circulation. It's all mine. I want it and I'm going to get it. That's how I change it from something I haven't had to something I have had. From something I haven't had to something I have had. That is from something I want, into something I don't want, into nothing, into less than nothing. I'm going to have that and having had it I'm going to make it less than nothing.

Before me it's an object of desire. After me it's shit. That's what we eaters do. We turn stuff to shit, and run the remains out at the proper level which is down you understand way down below. Because we don't ever want see that shit again. Oh no. Yuck. Its disgusting.

Get that out of my sight. Get it out of my house, out of my life. Flush it down the toilet. Flush it into the sewers below the city. Way down there below the city. We're up here on top. That's where we're supposed to be. Top of the heap. You've got to look smart to stay up here on top of the heap. Look smart or next thing you know somebody will come along and turn you into shit. It's a regular feeding frenzy up here on the heap. That's why we have to turn as much as possible to shit so we can run it out at its proper level, which is down you understand, way down there below us. Well below me anyway. I'm not so sure about you. (smell the heather)

Who's next? Whose delicate brow can I anoint with Paco Rabane. Whose hair can I pick through looking for lice. How white the princess is this evening. From which stone does she yearn for empathy? The rose fell in love with a silk stocking full of mud. He knew the pleasure of loving a fool. Ah! The ecstatic oneness of it. If we two become one, which one will we be? (I am Heathcliff)

I am in love. So wonderfully in love. His hair is like ebony, his skin like ivory and his eyes look into forever. He is my Prince. The light of my life. And I found him in the window of Le Chateau. The only man who has ever really understood me, inside I mean. I know he knows I know. Words aren't necessary.

Give me your dirty hand. I think we're getting somewhere. Of course we'll have to dye your hair. And you will kill yourself in the end. Is that a problem? (Heathcliff forgive me).