That’s what a map is, you know. Just a memory.

...For grace may only be found briefly, and always in the midst of madness.

Perhaps all a Tsaritsa is is a beautiful cold girl in the snow, looking down at someone wretched, and not yielding.

Woman! Come out! I have—" She looked down at the bloodless grass, embarrassed. "I have come to rescue you," she finally said, as if admitting that she were covered in boils.

He tried to reconstruct the story in his mind, but it kept getting confused, bleeding into itself like watercolors.

The future is a messy, motley business, little girl.

I am the Walker and the Maze.