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.

I will draw you back to me. You shall see. By a chain of stars.

It's lovely. I hate it.

How massively the mountains stand, while low to the ground the sand blows. The sand blows on and on. And then there are no mountains, none at all, the sand has kissed and whispered them away. And still, the sand blows on.

We all have our dreams. May we find them, and God have mercy on us when we do.

No one is ever ordinary.

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