If soot stains your tunic, dye it black. This is vengeance.

There was such a difference, he thought, between the beauty that illuminated, and the beauty that was illuminated.

If the world is a game whose rules are written by the God, and sorcerers are those who cheat and cheat, then who has written the rules of sorcery?

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

To indulge it is to breed it. To punish it is to feed it. Madness knows no bridle but the knife.

There’s faith that knows itself as faith, Proyas, and there’s faith that confuses itself for knowledge. The first embraces uncertainty, acknowledges the mysteriousness of the God. It begets compassion and tolerance. Who can entirely condemn when they’re not entirely certain they’re in the right? But the second, Proyas, the second embraces certainty and only pays lip service to the God’s mystery. It begets intolerance, hatred, violence.

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.