I may be running out of options, but running out isn't an option.

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.

There’s something brittle in me that will break before it bends.

Memories are dangerous things. You turn them over and over, until you know every touch and corner, but still you'll find an edge to cut you.

Memory is all we are. Moments and feelings, captured in amber, strung on filaments of reason. Take a man’s memories and you take all of him. Chip away a memory at a time and you destroy him as surely as if you hammered nail after nail through his skull.

It never pays to walk blindly. Especially not in your own castle where familiarity hides so much - even when we have the eyes to see.

There is no sound more annoying than the chatter of a child, and none more sad than the silence they leave when they are gone.