What deity in the realms of dementia, what rabid god decocted out of the smoking lobes of hydrophobia could have devised a keeping place for souls so poor as is this flesh. This mawky worm-bent tabernacle.

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

In his dream she was sick and he cared for her. The dream bore the look of sacrifice but he thought differently. He did not take care of her and she died alone somewhere in the dark and there is no other dream nor other waking world and there is no other tale to tell.

I got what I needed instead of what I wanted and that's just about the best kind of luck you can have.

Notions of chance and fate are the preoccupations of men engaged in rash undertakings.

Whatever in creation exists without my knowledge exists without my consent.

Between the wish and the thing the world lies waiting.