Both The Oblation Board And The Specters

Read Like A Butterfly, Write Like A Bee.

We Feel Cold, But We Don't Mind It, Because We Will Not Come To Harm. And If We Wrapped Up Against The Cold, We Wouldn't Feel Other Things, Like The Bright Tingle Of The Stars, Or The Music Of The Aurora, Or Best Of All The Silky Feeling Of Moonlight On Our Skin. It's Worth Being Cold For That.

Corruption And Envy And Lust For Power. Cruelty And Coldness. A Vicious Probing Curiousity. Pure, Poisonous, Toxic Malice. You Have Never From Your Earliest Years Shown A Shred Of Compassion For Sympathy Or Kindness Without Calculating How It Would Return To Your Advantage. You Have Tortured And Killed Without Regret Or Hesitation; You Have Betrayed And Intrigued And Gloried In Your Treachery. You Are A Cess-pit Of Moral Filth.

But Think Of Adam And Eve Like An Imaginary Number, Like The Square Root Of Minus One: You Can Never See Any Concrete Proof That It Exists, But If You Include It In Your Equations, You Can Calculate All Manner Of Things That Couldn't Be Imagined Without It.

I Stopped Believing There Was A Power Of Good And A Power Of Evil That Were Outside Us. And I Came To Believe That Good And Evil Are Names For What People Do, Not For What They Are.