The work we have to do is with ourselves$$$ if we're ever going to be at peace with each other.

What a stroke of luck$$$ that the woman he loves is also his wife.

How quickly the dead faded into each other.

This is how the entire course of a life can be changed: by doing nothing.

In violence we forget who we are.

When you die$$$ it's the same as if everybody else did too.

All things of grace and beauty such that one holds them to one's heart have a common provenance in pain. Their birth in grief and ashes.

You never know what worse luck your bad luck has saved you from.

Somewhere out there is a true and living prophet of destruction and I don't want to confront him. I know he's real. I have seen his work.

Each memory recalled must do some violence to its origins.