His Back was turned to the end of the world and the end of the world was quiet.
We breathe the light, we breathe the music, we breathe the moment as it passes through us.
The only power that exists is inside ourselves.
Garden of Pain, I need you. What were the songs of beasts to the cries of sentient souls?
Fear was once again breaking the shell around me so that something else could spring to life.
Is that the proof, Almighty God, that you are not there, that your saints could be such petty demons?