Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real.
Nights dark beyond darkness and the days more gray each one than what had gone before.
Between the wish and the thing the world lies waiting.
Here beyond men’s judgments all covenants were brittle.
If he is not the word of God, then God never spoke.
What you alter in the remembering has yet a reality, known or not.
Every day is a lie. But you are dying. That is not a lie.