Wise Words Are Like Arrows Flung At

I Was Needed, But I Myself Did Not Need. I Had Followers, But Not Allies, And Only Now Do I Understand The Difference. And It Is Vast.

And Over It All, The Butterflies Swarmed, Like A Million Yellow-pettalled Flowers Dancing On Swirling Winds.

The Art Of Illusion Is Grace Itself.

The Harder The World, The Fiercer The Honour.

Survivors Do Not Mourn Together. They Each Mourn Alone, Even When In The Same Place. Grief Is The Most Solitary Of All Feelings. Grief Isolates, And Every Ritual, Every Gesture, Every Embrace, Is A Hopeless Effort To Break Through That Isolation. None Of It Works. The Forms Crumble And Dissolve. To Face Death Is To Stand Alone.