All Literature Consists Of Whatever The Writer

The Others Followed, And Found Themselves In A Small, Stuffy Basement, Which Would Have Been Damp, Smelly, Close, And Dark, Were It Not, In Fact, Well-lit, Which Prevented It From Being Dark.

In Our Memories, There Is A Graveyard Where We Bury Our Dead. They All Lie There Together, The Loved Ones And The Ones We Hated, Friends And Foes And Kin, With No Distinction Among Them. We Have To Mourn Every One Of Them, Because Our Memories Have Made Them As Much A Part Of Us As Our Bones Or Our Skin. If We Don't, We've No Right To Remember Anything At All.

Always Speak Politely To An Enraged Dragon.

Staring Into The Dragon's Maw, One Quickly Learns Wisdom.

I Tend To Close My Eyes When I Look At People Anymore.