The tracks of a fox raised out of the snow intaglio like little mushrooms and berrystains where birds shat crimson mutes upon the snow like blood.
Grief is the stuff of life. A life without grief is no life at all. But regret is a prison. Some part of you which you deeply value lies forever impaled at a crossroads you can no longer find and never forget.
But I will tell you Squire that having read even a few dozen books in common is a force more binding than blood.
When the onset of universal night is finally acknowledged as irreversible even the coldest cynic will be astonished at the celerity with which every rule and stricture shoring up this creaking edifice is abandoned and every aberrancy embraced. It should be quite a spectacle.
Beauty makes promises that beauty cant keep.
In that mycoidal phantom blooming in the dawn like an evil lotus and in the melting of solids not heretofore known to do so stood a truth that would silence poetry for a thousand years.
History is a collection of paper. A few fading recollections. After a while what is not written never happened.
It’s just that sometimes I think I would have found my life pretty funny if I hadnt had to live it.
People will go to strange lengths to avoid the suffering they have coming.
I know that to be female is an older thing even than to be human. I want to be as old as I can be.
I feel old, Squire. Every conversation is about the past.
The world has created no living thing that it does not intend to destroy.
Here is a story. The last of all men who stands alone in the universe while it darkens about him. Who sorrows all things with a single sorrow. Out of the pitiable and exhausted remnants of what was once his soul he’ll find nothing from which to craft the least thing godlike to guide him in these last of days.
A calamity can be erased by no amount of good. It can only be erased by a worse calamity.
We would hardly wish to know ourselves again as once we were and yet we mourn the days.
You might think that fingerprints and numbers give you a distinct identity. But soon there will be no identity so distinct as simply to have none.
Nobody comes with names. You give them names so that you can find them in the dark.
I think our time is up. I know. Hold my hand. Hold your hand? Yes. I want you to. All right. Why? Because that’s what people do when they’re waiting for the end of something.
In the beginning always was nothing. The novae exploding silently. In total darkness. The stars, the passing comets. Everything at best of alleged being. Black fires. Like the fires of hell. Silence. Nothingness. Night. Black Suns herding the planets through a universe where the concept of space was meaningless for want of any end to it. For want of any concept to stand it against.
God was not interested in our theology but only in our silence.