It's lovely. I hate it.
It was not apathy. It was an intelligent disinterest in those things that could have no bearing on one's existence.
It's very selfish when I write. I'm not aware, ever, of writing for another person; I'm not even really aware of writing for myself.
Hope is a punishable offense. The verdict is always death; one more death of the heart.
No one is ever ordinary.
Condemned and executioner with aren't coupled in a primitive rite.