Butterflies are a lot like mustaches. I don’t mean in their, I dunno, biological makeup? I’m speaking more of their shared iconographical appropriation. See, mustaches used to be either robust or hilarious; verdant badges worn proudly by the brave, until a bunch of shit-stain hipsters stole them...without actually being able to properly grow one. The same is true of butterflies. Sorta.

According to the Internet, a “Roche limit” is the distance at which a manmade or natural satellite, held together by its own gravitational pull (rather than simply being a solid mass), will be pulled apart by the gravity of a larger or more tidally-charged celestial body, like a planet.

Unlike some, I am not typically what you might call a “horror guy.” Don’t get me wrong, I like a good scare, but modern horror - be it in film, comic books or otherwise - seems to be complacent in eliciting its fright through gratuitous gore, rather than the psychological stuff that cranks my tractor. It is the implied - that which lurks at the periphery of the story - which, for me, terrifies the most and leaves a lasting impression. In terms of gore, less is more.