Ah, Fist, it’s the curse of history that those who should read them, never do.

Shake your fist all you want but dead is dead

You must dismantle your sources, lest you do nothing but ape the prejudices of others

I have to feel what I'm writing, right down to the core.

And in the city on all sides, the howling of the Hounds rose in an ear-shattering, soul-flailing crescendo. The Lord of Death had arrived, to walk the streets in the City of Blue Fire.

Paradise belonged to the innocent. Which was why it was and would ever remain empty. And that is what makes it a paradise.

Survivors do not mourn together. They each mourn alone, even when in the same place. Grief is the most solitary of all feelings. Grief isolates, and every ritual, every gesture, every embrace, is a hopeless effort to break through that isolation. None of it works. The forms crumble and dissolve. To face death is to stand alone.