And Over It All, The

The Only Consistent Narrative We Possess Is One That We Share With Every Other Life-form: We Are Born, We Live, And Then We Die.

All They Get Around Here Is Stories. Stories Don't Make You Bleed. Stories Don't Make You Go Hungry, Don't Give You Sore Feet. When You're Young Smelling Of Pigshit And Convinced There Ain't A Weapon In All The Damn World That's Going To Hurt You, All Stories Do Is Make You Want To Be Part Of Them.

Do Mortal Fools Still Measure The Increments Leading To Their Deaths, Wagering Pleasures Against Costs, Persisting In The Delusion That Deeds Have Value, That The World And All The Gods Sit In Judgment Over Every Decision Made Or Not Made?

I Love You Still, But With Your Death I Succumbed To A Kind Of Infatuation. I Convinced Myself That What You And I Had, So Very Briefly, Was Of Far Vaster And Deeper Import Than It Truly Was. Of All The Weapons We Chose To Turn Upon Ourselves, Guilt Is The Sharpest, Silverfox. It Can Carve One's Own Past Into Unrecognizable Shapes, False Memories Leading To Beliefs That Sow All Kinds Of Obsessions.

The Tiger Is Humbled By Memories Of Prey.