Page 27 of The Refrigerator Monologues

She starts to sing. By the time the chorus rolls around, we’re all singing together, the infinite dead and the gargoyles and the evil clown and the scaly punk princess and the star-eater and the porn star and the science-queen of hypermercury and the girl in the refrigerator, giving no fucks for the hackneyed, predictable tales steaming on without us, full speed ahead. We escaped. The Deadtown moon turns all our faces into four-color saints, and for a moment, this moment, every night, we all feel almost alive again, dancing together at the end of the story, where nothing in heaven or earth can hurt us anymore forever.