With out some kind of god, man is not very intresting
A thousand policemen directing traffic cannot tell you why you come or where you go.
Footfalls echo in the memory, down the passage we did not take, towards the door we never opened, into the rose garden.
We must learn to suffer more.
Between the desire And the spasm, Between the potency And the existence, Between the essence And the descent, Falls the Shadow.
Think neither fear nor courage saves us. Unnatural vices are fathered by our heroism. Virtues are forced upon us by our impudent crimes. These tears are shaken from the wrath-bearing tree.