There Are Times When The Air That

He Saw In Happiness The Seeds Of Independence, And In Independence The Seeds Of Revolt.

Lingering Is So Very Lonely When One Lingers All Alone.

I Was Brooding, Boy. Than Which There Is No Richer Pastime. It Muffles One With Rotting Plumes. It Gives Forth Sullen Music. It Is The Smell Of Home.

Mount And Begone. The World Awaits You.

There Are Times When The Air That Floats Between Mortals Becomes, In Its Stillness And Silence, As Cruel As The Edge Of A Scythe.