It is permissible to be the god of your own metaphors.

Did I become court composer through masterful procrastination? Hardly!

I cannot perch among those who think that I am broken.

The world is seldom so simple that it hinges on us alone.

And I realized a wondrous truth: that knowledge could be our treasure, that there were things humankind knew that we did not, that our conquest need not comprise taking and killing, but could consist of our mutual conquest of ignorance and distrust.

The world inside myself is vaster and richer than this paltry plane, peopled with mere galaxies and gods.

Heaven has fashioned a knife of irony to stab me with.