When we talk about our lives, long or short, brief and tragic or enduring beyond comprehension, we impose a continuity on them, and that continuity is a lie.

Dear God, help me. Do not forget me on this tiny cinder lost in a galaxy that is lost–a heart no bigger than a speck of dust beating, beating against death, against meaninglessness, against guilt, against sorrow.

-You are on the verge of being truly mad. -No, not at all. Look at me. I can tie my shoelaces. See?

The earth here is beautiful. And it still belongs to the dead.

Everyone is a potential naked slave to you once you become a trainer.

But the sky was never quite the same shade of blue again.

Curses of vanished elders echoed down on me; too pretty, too soft, too pale, eyes far too full of the Devil, ah, that devilish smile