The only consistent narrative we possess is one that we share with every other life-form: we are born, we live, and then we die.

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.

Never, dear gods. Never mess with mortals.

I warn you all, hatred is finding fertile soil within me. And in your compassion, in your every good intention, you nurture it.

We humans do not understand compassion. In each moment of our lives, we betray it. Aye, we know of its worth, yet in knowing we then attach to it a value, we guard the giving of it, believing it must be earned, T’lan Imass. Compassion is priceless in the truest sense of the wold. It must be given freely. In abundance.

Your brain works with all the subtlety of a malicious child.

All art is an intensely vulnerable gesture, and it is made with no small amounts of risk, and fear. So, I have plenty of sympathy for self-defense mechanisms, especially among artists.