The company you keep at death is, of all things, most dependent on chance.
I am exceedingly angry for no good reason.
Wars of small kingdoms and forgotten lands, what do chessmen dream of in the dark?
Through poverty, godhunger, the family debacle, I kept a sense of worth. I could limn and paint like no-one else in this human-wounded land: I was worth the while of living. Now my skill is dead. I should be.
There is a time, when passing through a light, that you walk in your own shadow.
But hands are sacred things. Touch is personal, fingers of love, feelers of blind eyes, tongues of those who cannot talk.