There are times when the air that floats between mortals becomes, in its stillness and silence, as cruel as the edge of a scythe.

His was not the hatred that arises suddenly like a storm and as suddenly abates. It was, once the initial shock of anger and pain was over, a calculated thing that grew in a bloodless way.

He had no longer any need for home, for he carried his Gormenghast within him. All that he sought was jostling within himself. He had grown up. What a boy had set out to seek a man had found, found by the act of living.

For death is life. It is only living that is lifeless.

Mount and begone. The world awaits you.

The Earth swirls down through the ominous moons of preconsidered generations.

I am the wilderness lost in man.