Cruelty is not a literary value.

Things, even people have a way of leaking into each other like flavours when you cook.

Home has become such a scattered, damaged, various concept in our present travails. There is so much to yearn for. There are so few rainbows any more.

We have come to think of taking offence as a fundamental right. We value very little more highly than our rage, which gives us, in our opinion, the moral high ground. From there we can shoot down at our enemies and inflict heavy fatalities.

If you're offended, it's your problem.

My horizon's have shrunk and I have only endings to write.

We cannot allow religious hooligans to place limiting points on thought.