Justice Does Not Descend From Its Own

A Rapid Bolt Will Rend The Clouds Apart, And Every Single White Be Seared By Wounds. I Tell You This. I Want It All To Hurt.

As Little Flowers, Which The Chill Of Night Has Bent And Huddled, When The White Sun Strikes, Grow Straight And Open Fully On Their Stems, So Did I, Too, With My Exhausted Force.

The Wisest Are The Most Annoyed At The Loss Of Time.

Not One Drop Of Blood Is Left Inside My Veins That Does Not Throb: I Recognize Signs Of The Ancient Flame.

Give Unto Us This Day The Daily Manna Without Which, In This Desert Where We Dwell, He Must Go Backward Who Would Most Advance.