Every Man Must Die, Jon

And Pray That He Is The Man I Think He Is, He Finished Silently, And Not The Man I Fear He Has Become.

The Old Man Laid A Withered, Spotted Hand On His Shoulder. "it Hurts, Boy," He Said Softly. "oh, Yes. Choosing . . . It Has Always Hurt. And Always Will. I Know.

I Prefer My History Dead. Dead History Is Writ In Ink, The Living Sort In Blood.

I Thought My Song Was Beginning That Day, But It Was Almost Done.

The Man Is As Useless As Nipples On A Breastplate.