The dictate of the light says: Know yourself and what you are. The dark replies, By all means, but then become afraid.

I think of myself as a storyteller, and that is it.

She could not mourn. She could no longer weep grasping the essence of annihilation, she wished only to cease, to be no more, as if sunk in some profound sleep devoid of wakening.

It was not apathy. It was an intelligent disinterest in those things that could have no bearing on one's existence.

I hate the way, once you start to know someone, care about them, their behavior can distress you, even when it's unreasonable and not your fault, even if you were really trying to be careful, tactful.

A rose by any other name Would get the blame For being what it is-- The colour of a kiss, The shadow of a flame. A rose may earn another name, So call it love; So call it love I will, And love is like the sea, Which changes constantly, And yet is still The same.

Condemned and executioner with aren't coupled in a primitive rite.