The rain comes down harder as I write. It sheets off the roof in torrents. I wish it would pound against me. Pound the life from my body. The flesh from my bones. The pain from my heart.

Yeah. Sure. My brother's dead. My mother's insame. Hey, let's have a crepe.

Stop yelling. If everyone’s yelling, no one can be heard.

But words are more powerful than anything.

It's another sin. Worse than all the other ones, which are immediate, violent and hot...It's the eighth deadly sin. The one God left out, Hope.

The King walks. He nods. His glance is like God's touch - under it all things spring to life. A wave of his hand and a hundred musicians tear into the Handel, making a sound you've never heard before, and never will again. A sound that goes through you, through flesh and bone, and reorders the very beat of your heart.

I know it is a bad thing to break a promise, but I think now that it is a worse thing to let a promise break you.