No Purer Artist Exists Or Has Ever

For We Are All Bound In Stories, And As The Years Pile Up They Turn To Stone, Layer Upon Layer, Building Our Lives.

Not Even The Lichen Of The Tundra Is At Peace. All Is Struggle, All Is War For Dominance. Those Who Lose, Vanish. -and We’re No Different You’re Saying- We Are, Soldier. We Possess The Privilege Of Choice. The Gift Of Foresight. Though Often We Come Too Late In Acknowledging Responsibilities….

Any Reasonable Ruler Would Have The Expectation And The Demand The Other Way Round.

Betrayal Was The Greatest Of All Crimes, For It Took All That Was Human Within A Person And Made It A Thing Of Pain. In The Face Of That, Murder Itself Was Surcease: It Was Quick, And It Ended The Anguish And Despair Of A Life Without Hope.

A Story Invites Both Writer And Reader Into A Kind Of Superficial Ease: We Want To Slide Along, Pleasingly Entertained, Lost In The Fictional Dream.