Art is the language of the tormented, but the world is blind to that, for ever blind. - Steven Erikson

Now these ashes have grown cold, we open the old book.
These oil-stained pages recount the tales of the Fallen,
a frayed empire, words without warmth. The hearth
has ebbed, its gleam and life's sparks are but memories
against dimming eyes - what cast my mind, what hue my
thoughts as I open the Book of the Fallen
and breathe deep the scent of history?
Listen, then, to these words carried on that breath.
These tales are the tales of us all, again yet again.
We are history relived and that is all, without end that is all.

Ambition is not a dirty word. Piss on compromise. Go for the throat.

The risk in unleashing false rumours was when they proved too successful, trapping the liar in the lie,