Truth Casts A Spell Of

You Are Working Up To Mr. Fantastic Fiction Levels Of Zombie Expert, Which Is Like Playing Guitar Hero On Some Level That Actually Melts The Guitar Controller, Burning Your Fingers With Searing Hot Plastic Till You Scream In Pain. Only With Words. And Zombies.

The Dark Does Not Weep For Itself Because There Is No Light. Rather, It Accepts That It Is The Dark.

I Had A Friend Who Said, "you Don't Have An Internal Critic. You Have An Internal Sadist."

I Have Done What They Expected Of Me. I Have Curtsied For My Queen And Made My Debut. This Is What I Have Anticipated Eagerly For Years. So Why Do I Feel So Unsatisfied? Everyone Is Merry. They Haven't A Care In The World. And Perhaps That Is It. How Terrible It Is To Have No Cares, No Longings. I Do Not Fit. I Feel Too Deeply And Want Too Much.

She Was Tired Of Being Told How It Was By This Generation, Who’d Botched Things So Badly. They’d Sold Their Children A Pack Of Lies: God And Country. Love Your Parents. All Is Fair. And Then They’d Sent Those Boys, Her Brother, Off To Fight A Great Monster Of A War That Maimed And Killed And Destroyed Whatever Was Inside Them. Still They Lied, Expecting Her To Mouth The Words And Play Along. Well, She Wouldn’t. She Knew Now That The World Was A Long Way From Fair. She Knew The Monsters Were Real.