Like All Strong People, She Suffered Always

Curses Of Vanished Elders Echoed Down On Me; Too Pretty, Too Soft, Too Pale, Eyes Far Too Full Of The Devil, Ah, That Devilish Smile

Sweet To Think On It, That When We Are Last Weary Of All This World There Is The Rising Sun

Who Knew That Better Than I, Who Had Presided Over The Death Of My Own Body, Seeing All I Called Human Wither And Die Only To Form An Unbreakable Chain Which Held Me Fast To This World Yet Made Me Forever Its Exile, A Specter With A Beating Heart?

Life Itself Must Be Founded Upon The Infinite Possibility For Choice And Accident. And If We Cannot Prove That It Is, We Must Believe That It Is. We Must Believe That We Can Change, That We Can Control, That We Can Direct Our Own Destinies.

Being Liberated Means Reading What You Want To Read, And Fantasizing About What You Want To Fantasize About.