The Notion Of Evil For Its Own

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.

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

Chaos Needs No Allies, For It Dwells Like A Poison In Every One Of Us.

Gods, I Wish The World Was Full Of Passive Women.he Thougt For A Moment Longer, Then Scowled. On Second Thoughts, What A Nightmare That'd Be. It's The Job Of A Man To Fan The Spark Into Flames, Not Quench It.

And Over It All, The Butterflies Swarmed, Like A Million Yellow-pettalled Flowers Dancing On Swirling Winds.