The Dead Cannot Cry Out For Justice.

I've Described My Usual Writing Process As Scrambling From Peak To Peak On Inspiration Through Foggy Valleys Of Despised Logic. Inspiration Is Better When You Can Get It.

Surely Only Correct Understanding Could Lead To Correct Action.

He's Not Too Short. He's Just... Concentrated.

There Is No More Hollow Feeling Than To Stand With Your Honor Shattered At Your Feet While Soaring Public Reputation Wraps You In Rewards. That's Soul-destroying. The Other Way Around Is Merely Very, Very Irritating.

I'm Not Getting It All Sorted, She Worried. I'm Not Getting It Right. You Are Brilliant, The Voice Reassured Her. It Is Imperfect. So Are All Things Trapped In Time. You Are Brilliant, Nonetheless. How Fortunate For Us That We Thirst For Glorious Souls Rather Than Faultless Ones, Or We Should Be Parched Indeed, And Most Lonely In Our Perfect Righteousness. Carry On Imperfectly, Shining Ista.