All our lives are activity without meaning; we burrow ratlike into life and we squirm ratlike through it and ratlike we are flung into our graves at the end. Now and then, why shouldn't we hear a voice of prophecy.

Even God used silence as a strategy.

Light will blind us in time, but what we learn in the dark can see us through.

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

Just my luck, if I believed in luck. I only believe in the opposite of luck, whatever that is.

It's been a long rocky life, with plenty of possibility but too much human ugliness.

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