The Joys Of The Evil Flow Away

To Repair The Irreparable Ravages Of Time.

You Feign Guilt In Order To Justify Yourself.

Honor, Without Money, Is A Mere Malady.

Vice, Like Virtue, Grows In Small Steps, And No True Innocence Can Ever Fall At Once To Deepest Guilt.

Pain Is Unjust, And All The Arguments That Cannot Soothe It Only Rouse Suspicion.