Inevitably, someone compared US presidential candidate Donald Trump to a zombie.
Republicans who once worried that Mr. Trump might gain overwhelming momentum in the primaries are now becoming preoccupied with a different grim prospect: that Mr. Trump might become a kind of zombie candidate — damaged beyond the point of repair, but too late for any of his rivals to stop him.
Alexander Burns carries the metaphor a little further:
Should Mr. Trump lurch into the convention so fatally compromised with both general-election voters and a sizable faction of Republicans, it could make it easier for the party to wrest the nomination away from him. But it would also make the consequences of failing to defeat him all the more ruinous if the specter of choosing a seemingly unelectable nominee does not deter Mr. Trump’s supporters.
The Catacomb Saints is the name not of a great rock band but a group of massively bedecked skeletons found under Rome.
each skeleton was then clothed and adorned into a variety of precious jewels, expensive cloth, crowns, armour and even given wigs. They were put on display inside their designated churches as a reminder to all who visited, for the riches and wealth that awaited them post death – providing they swore allegiance to the Christian faith.
There's a history of violence to these well-dressed dead, thanks to the Reformation:
Many of these skeletons (given the name ‘The Catacomb Saints’ by those who first discovered them) were then distributed across Europe (predominantly Germany) as replacements for the countless holy relics which had been smashed, stolen or destroyed during the Protestant Reformation.
They are made from texas-muffin tin sized chocolate cakes- fluffy, dark and studded with chocolate chunks. You then shape pairs of the cakes into a roughly oval anatomical heart-shape (see the picture with the cakes on top of the fondant), stick them together with smears of smooth chocolate buttercream and wrap the red fondant up and around the them, molding out arteries at the top...
These aren't full readings, but impressionistic mixes, using excerpts from the stories to anchor audio brooding.
Get into your isolation tanks, at Matt Howarth used to say, and listen:
Madness rides the star-wind . . . claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses . . . dripping death astride a Bacchanale of bats from night-black ruins of buried temples of Belial. . . . Now, as the baying of that dead, fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder, and the stealthy whirring and flapping of those accursed web-wings circles closer and closer, I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the unnamed and unnamable.