The smarter you are, the more you know, the less reason you have to trust or love or confide.

Why? is the boy's motto, why does, why is, why not? Food, weather, time, fires, sea and season, clothes and cars and people; it's all grist to the mill of why.

The smarter you are, the more you know, the less reason you have to trust or love or confide.

Wars of small kingdoms and forgotten lands, what do chessmen dream of in the dark?

It's the possibility that when you're dead you might still go on hurting that bothers me.

I am in limbo, and in limbo there are no races, no prizes, no changes, no chances. There are merely degrees of endurance, and endurance never was my strong point.

I am exceedingly angry for no good reason.