Doubt begets understanding, and understanding begets compassion. Verily, it is conviction that kills.

Sometimes the Nonman would climb upon some wild pulpit, the mossed remains of a fallen tree, the humped back of a boulder, and paint wonders with his dark voice. Wonders and horrors both.

History. Language. Passion. Custom. All these things determine what men say, think, and do. These are the hidden puppet-strings from which all men hang.

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

Doubt begets understanding, and understanding begets compassion. Verily, it is conviction that kills.

Exhaustion has a way of parting the veils between men, not so much because the effort of censoring their words exceeds them, but because weariness is the foe of volatility. Oft times insults that would pierce the wakeful simply thud against the sleepless and fatigued.

I wanted a literate, socially intricate, and cosmopolitan world - something I could have fun destroying.