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?

For we are all bound in stories, and as the years pile up they turn to stone, layer upon layer, building our lives.

I hear Seven Cities natives grow fruit just so they can eat the larvae in them.

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

The art of illusion is grace itself.

And over it all, the butterflies swarmed, like a million yellow-pettalled flowers dancing on swirling winds.

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.