All that we were has led us to where we are, but tells us little of where we’re going. Memories are a weight you can never shrug off.

He was a man who would never ask for sympathy. He was a man who sought only to do what was right. Such people appear in the world, every world, now and then, like a single refrain of some blessed song, a fragment caught on the spur of an otherwise raging cacophony. Imagine a world without such souls. Yes, it should have been harder to do.

Power is violence, its promise, its deed. Power cares nothing for reason, nothing for justice, nothing for compassion. It is, in fact, the singular abnegation of these things - once the cloak of deceits is stripped away, this one truth is revealed.

There is no struggle too vast, no odds too overwhelming, for even should we fail - should we fall - we will know that we have lived.

The art of illusion is grace itself.

Do mortal fools still measure the increments leading to their deaths, wagering pleasures against costs, persisting in the delusion that deeds have value, that the world and all the gods sit in judgment over every decision made or not made?

No purer artist exists or has ever existed than a child freed to imagine.