The only death I fear is dying ignorant.
There is no struggle too vast, no odds too overwhelming, for even should we fail – should we fall – we will know that we have lived.
Ah, Fist, it’s the curse of history that those who should read them, never do.
It is one thing to lead by example with half a dozen soldiers at your back. It is wholly another with ten thousand.
Oh yes, I have learned much from Tremorlor, and so assume a like strategy. Silence, a faint mocking smile suggesting I know more than I do, an air of mystery, yes, and fell knowledge. None could guess my confusion, my host of deluded illusions and elusive delusions!
I mean the only thing us dead soldiers got in common is that none of us was good enough or lucky enough to survive the fight. We’re a host of failures.
The stars, they are as the sun. Each star. Every star. And those spheres- they are worlds, realms, each one different yet the same.
The tiger is humbled by memories of prey.
All art is an intensely vulnerable gesture, and it is made with no small amounts of risk, and fear. So, I have plenty of sympathy for self-defense mechanisms, especially among artists.
Morality was not relative, they claimed, nor even existing solely in the realm of human condition. No, they proclaimed morality was an imperative of all life, a natural law that was neither the brutal acts of beasts nor the lofty ambitions of humanity, but something other, something unassailable.
Betrayal was the greatest of all crimes, for it took all that was human within a person and made it a thing of pain. In the face of that, murder itself was surcease: it was quick, and it ended the anguish and despair of a life without hope.
A celebration of insignificance, Is that all we are in the end? And one day I’ll just be one more of those faces, frozen in death and wonder.
Your brain works with all the subtlety of a malicious child.
All that we were has led us to where we are, but tells us little of where we’re going. Memories are a weight you can never shrug off.
If all we seek is an escape, what does that say about the world we live in. We are desperate with our dreams. What – oh, what – does that say?
The only consistent narrative we possess is one that we share with every other life-form: we are born, we live, and then we die.
Shake your fist all you want but dead is dead.
I hear Seven Cities natives grow fruit just so they can eat the larvae in them.
Death cannot be struggled against, brother. It ever arrives, defiant of every hiding place, of every frantic attempt to escape. Death is every mortal’s shadow, his true shadow, and time is its servant, spinning that shadow slowly round, until what stretched before one now stretched before him.
The future can ever promise but one thing and one thing only: surprises.