It seems that fighting is a game where everybody is the loser.
When I pitched headforemost into the world I landed in the crib of Negroism.
Every morning the world flung itself over and exposed the town to the sun.
Magic is older than writing. So nobody knows how it started.
every heart has its graveyard.
It seems to me that trying to live without friends is like milking a bear to get cream for your morning coffee. It is a whole lot of trouble, and then not worth much after you get it.