Time for the world to end.
I was woefully ignorant in the social graces. I was being raised, after all, by Pellinore Warthrop.
In case you're an alien and you're reading this: BITE ME.
What doesn't kill us sharpens us. Hardens us. Schools us. You're beating plowshares into swords, Vosch. You are remaking us. We are the clay, and you are Michelangelo. And we will be your masterpiece.
Yes, my dear child, monsters are real. I happen to have one hanging in my basement.
The cold stars spun to the ancient rhythm, the august march of an everlasting symphony. They are old, the stars, and their memory is long.