Fictions are merely frozen dreams, linked images with some semblance of structure. They are not to be trusted, no more than the people who create them.

Here, far from our homes, we will be forgotten by our gods.

Gods die. And when they truly die they are unmourned and unremembered. Ideas are more difficult to kill than people, but they can be killed, in the end.

What do I do now?” “I don’t know. Fade away, perhaps. Or find another role.

Whenever it rains you will think of her.

I want to write a play. I'd like to do an original musical. I should probably put together a poetry collection.

Sometimes we can choose the paths we follow. Sometimes our choices are made for us. And sometimes we have no choice at all.