Consequences lost all purchase when they became mad. And desperation, when pressed beyond anguish, became narcotic.

Achamian tossed his hands skyward in dismay. “Foolish boy! How many faiths are there? How many competing beliefs? And you would murder another on the slender hope that yours is somehow the only one?

Something ... made him feel small, not in the way of orphans or beggars or children, but in a good way. In the way of souls.

What if the choice isn’t between certainties, between this faith and that, but between faith and doubt? Between renouncing the mystery and embracing it?

Saying 'I could have done more,' Zin, is what marks a man as a man and not a God.

Love is lust made meaningful. Hope is hunger made human.

Any fool can see the limits of seeing, but not even the wisest know the limits of knowing. Thus is ignorance rendered invisible, and are all Men made fools.