Does the devil ever struggle to be good again, or if so is he not a devil?

Forget us, forget us all, it makes no difference now, but don't forget we loved it when we were alive.

The moon rose, an opalescent goddess tipping light from her harsh maternal scimitar.

Small steps to the madhouse still get us there at last

What goes unnamed remains hard to correct.

If magic was present, it moved under the skin of the world, beneath the ability of human eyes to catch sight of it.

Immortality is a chancy thing; it cannot be promised or earned. Perhaps it cannot even be identified for what it is.