Even The Damned In Hell Have The

There Is No Such Joy In The Tavern As Upon The Road Thereto.

The Passing Of Armies And The Passing Of Sands In The Desert Are One.

They Rode Like Men Invested With A Purpose Whose Origins Were Antecedent To Them, Like Blood Legatees Of An Order Both Imperative And Remote. For Although Each Man Among Them Was Discrete Unto Himself, Conjoined They Made A Thing That Had Not Been Before And In That Communal Soul Were Wastes Hardly Reckonable More Than Those Whited Regions On Old Maps Where Monsters Do Live And Where There Is Nothing Other Of The Known World Save Conjectural Winds.

Your Heart's Desire Is To Be Told Some Mystery. The Mystery Is That There Is No Mystery.

There Is No Greater Monster Than Reason.