How Can People Trust The Harvest, Unless

Miss Searle Had Always Considered Boredom An Intellectual Defeat.

Clouds Of Black Birds Rose Up Wailing And Screaming, Like The Thoughts Of My Heart.

When We Serve The Great, They Are Our Destiny.

In Hatred As In Love, We Grow Like The Thing We Brood Upon. What We Loathe, We Graft Into Our Very Soul.

One Must Live As If It Would Be Forever, And As If One Might Die Each Moment. Always Both At Once.