I enjoy slaughtering beasts, and I think of my relatives constantly.

Nobody steals books but your friends.

I saw my earlier selves as different people, acquaintances I had outgrown. I wondered how I could ever have been some of them.

I know, too, that death is the only god who comes when you call.

I have decided, it is fruitless. For I am no longer sure of anything concerning my existance. A philosopher is a dead poet and a dying theologian.

There's really nothing quite like someone's wanting you dead to make you want to go on living.

I walked among Shadows, and found a race of furry creatures, dark and clawed and fanged, reasonably manlike, and about as intelligent as a freshman in the high school of your choice-sorry, kids, but what I mean is they were loyal, devoted, honest, and too easily screwed by bastards like me and my brother. I felt like the dee-jay of your choice.