You look good to me, you damnable little devil, good to embrace and good to love.
Words. Borne on the ever swelling current of hatred, like flowers opening in the current, petals peeling back, then falling apart.
I know nothing, because I know too much, and understand not nearly enough and never will.
In the very depths of Hell, do not demons love one another?
One tiny flame could make so many other flames; one tiny flame could set afire a whole world.
Wasn't it his right to listen to opera, read poetry and adventure novels, go to Europe every couple of months for some reason or another, and drive his Porsche over the speed limit until he found out who he was?