You’ve thrown down the gauntlet. You’ve brought my wrath down upon your house. Now, to prove that I exist I must kill you. As the child outlives the father, so must the character bury the author. If you are, in fact, my continuing author, then killing you will end my existence as well. Small loss. Such a life, as your puppet, is not worth living. But… If I destroy you and your dreck script, and I still exist… then my existence will be glorious, for I will become my own master.

History is nothing except monsters or victims. Or witnesses.

You kill strangers deliberately so you don't accidentally kill the people you love.

Maybe we should always assume the worst.

And if you believe that we really have free will, then you know that God can't really control us. And since God can't control us, all God does is watch and change channels when He gets bored.

At some point, your memories, your stories, your adventures, will be the only things you'll have left.

It’s weird to think the place where we’re standing will only be a point in the sky.