No Purer Artist Exists Or

I Hear Seven Cities Natives Grow Fruit Just So They Can Eat The Larvae In Them.

Soldiers Are Issued Armour For Their Flesh And Bones, But They Must Fashion Their Own For Their Souls. Piece By Piece.

I Mean The Only Thing Us Dead Soldiers Got In Common Is That None Of Us Was Good Enough Or Lucky Enough To Survive The Fight. We're A Host Of Failures.

Paradise Belonged To The Innocent. Which Was Why It Was And Would Ever Remain Empty. And That Is What Makes It A Paradise.

He Was A Man Who Would Never Ask For Sympathy. He Was A Man Who Sought Only To Do What Was Right. Such People Appear In The World, Every World, Now And Then, Like A Single Refrain Of Some Blessed Song, A Fragment Caught On The Spur Of An Otherwise Raging Cacophony. Imagine A World Without Such Souls. Yes, It Should Have Been Harder To Do.