What Kind Of Man Would

Time Is A Drug. Too Much Of It Kills You.

The Thing Is, I Mean, There’s Times When You Look At The Universe And You Think, “what About Me?” And You Can Just Hear The Universe Replying, “well, What About You?”

Oh, My Dear Vimes, History Changes All The Time. It Is Constantly Being Re-examined And Re-evaluated, Otherwise How Would We Be Able To Keep Historians Occupied? We Can't Possibly Allow People With Their Sort Of Minds To Walk Around With Time On Their Hands.

All Things That Are, Are Ours. But We Must Care. For If We Do Not Care, We Do Not Exist. If We Do Not Exist, Then There Is Nothing But Blind Oblivion. And Even Oblivion Must End Someday. Lord, Will You Grant Me Just A Little Time? For The Proper Balance Of Things. To Return What Was Given. For The Sake Of Prisoners And The Flight Of Birds. Death Took A Step Backwards. It Was Impossible To Read Expression In Azrael's Features. Death Glanced Sideways At The Servants. Lord, What Can The Harvest Hope For, If Not For The Care Of The Reaper Man?

Of Course, Just Because We've Heard A Spine-chilling, Blood-curdling Scream Of The Sort To Make Your Very Marrow Freeze In Your Bones Doesn't Automatically Mean There's Anything Wrong.