Chaos Needs No Allies, For It Dwells

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 Behind One Now Stretches Before Him.

More Than One Philosopher Has Claimed That We Ever Remain Children, Far Beneath The Indurated Layers That Make Up The Armour Of Adulthood. Armour Encumbers, Restricts The Body And Soul Within It. But It Also Protects. Blows Are Blunted. Feelings Lose Their Edge, Leaving Us To Suffer Naught But A Plague Of Bruises, And, After A Time, Bruises Fade.

Evil Is Nothing But A Word, An Objectification Where No Objectification Is Necessary. Cast Aside This Notion Of Some External Agency As The Source Of Inconceivable Inhumanity - The Sad Truth Is Our Possession Of An Innate Proclivity Towards Indifference, Towards Deliberate Denial Of Mercy, Towards Disengaging All That Is Moral Within Us. But If That Is Too Dire , Let's Call It Evil. And Paint It With Fire And Venom.

I Hear Seven Cities Natives Grow Fruit Just So They Can Eat The Larvae In Them.

The Lesson Of History Is That No One Learns.