How surely are the dead beyond death. Death is what the living carry with them. A state of dread, like some uncanny foretaste of a bitter memory. But the dead do not remember and nothingness is not a curse. Far from it.

War is the ultimate game because war is at last a forcing of the unity of existence. War is god.

It would take a hell of a wife to beat no wife at all.

Scared money can’t win and a worried man can’t love.

War was always here. Before man was, war waited for him. The ultimate trade awaiting its ultimate practitioner.

In the spring or warmer weather when the snow thaws in the woods the tracks of winter reappear on slender pedestals and the snow reveals in palimpsest old buried wanderings, struggles, scenes of death. Tales of winter brought to light again like time turned back upon itself.

What business is it of yours where I'm from, friendo?