Anything that you cannot sacrifice pins you. Makes you predictable, makes you weak.

Anything that you cannot sacrifice pins you. Makes you predictable, makes you weak.

We die a little every day and by degrees we’re reborn into different men, older men in the same clothes, with the same scars.

Few things worth having can be got easily.

All lives are tales. Some spread, and grow in the telling. Others are just told between us and the gods, muttered back and forth behind our days, but those tales grow too and shake us just as fierce.

Each day the memories weigh a little heavier. Each day they drag you down that bit further. You wind them around you, a single thread at a time, and you weave your own shroud, you build a cocoon, and in it madness grows.

You can't grow if you're constantly defined by this collection of frozen moments that you keep returning to. And if you can't grow, you're not alive.