The Art Of Illusion Is Grace Itself.

Your Brain Works With All The Subtlety Of A Malicious Child.

More Than One Philosopher Has Claimed That We Ever Remain Children, Far Beneath The Indurated Layers That Make Up The Armour Of Adulthood. Armour Encumbers, Restricts The Body And Soul Within It. But It Also Protects. Blows Are Blunted. Feelings Lose Their Edge, Leaving Us To Suffer Naught But A Plague Of Bruises, And, After A Time, Bruises Fade.

Death Cannot Be Struggled Against, Brother. It Ever Arrives, Defiant Of Every Hiding Place, Of Every Frantic Attempt To Escape. Death Is Every Mortal's Shadow, His True Shadow, And Time Is Its Servant, Spinning That Shadow Slowly Round, Until What Stretched Behind One Now Stretches Before Him.

A Celebration Of Insignificance, Is That All We Are In The End? And One Day I’ll Just Be One More Of Those Faces, Frozen In Death And Wonder

The Notion Of Evil For Its Own Sake Strikes Me As Boring -- All These Dark Lords Intent On Creating Wastelands Packed With Enslaved Victims... For What?