In the very corner of my soul there is an altar to a different god.

The Gods sell when they give. Glory is paid for with disgrace. Poor are the happy, for they are Just what passes.

Without madness what is man But a wholesome beast, Postponed corpse that begets?

Every spoken word double-crosses us. The written word is the only tolerable form of communication, as it isn't a stone in a bridge between souls but a ray of light between stars.

If this be to have sense, if to be awake Be but to see this bright, great sleep of things, For the rarer potion mine own dreams I'll take And for truth commune with imaginings

It's in an inland sea that the river of my life ended.

It's been a long time since I've been me.