Orma moved a pile of books off a stool for me but seated himself directly on another stack. This habit of his never ceased to amuse me. Dragons no longer hoarded gold; Comonot's reforms had outlawed it. For Orma and his generation, knowledge was treasure. As dragons through the ages had done, he gathered it and then he sat on it.

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

Metaphor is awkward, but emotion, by its nature, leaves you no more scalable approach.

I barely noticed loneliness anymore; it was my normal condition, by necessity if not by nature.

The truth may not be told. Here is an acceptable lie.

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

Was it probably true that reasoning beings were equal? It seemed more like a belief than a fact, even if I agreed with it. If you followed logic all the way back to its origin, did you inevitably end up at point of illogic, an article of faith?