The Way It Is

They cut down all of the large trees -- some of them a hundred years old or more -- along Ewell. Why? Some mischief of Saraman's, no doubt.

Fuck you: a term of extreme disdain, based on a cavalier attitude toward sex.

What is written in the stars frequently perplexes the planets.

The fruit on the vine is poisonous. A midnight snack of nightshade. A delicacy to turn the body cold. A tasty end to worry and pain.

I stand in front of the mirror and look at my reflection. This is me. I see myself, but no one else does.

It's all written in code. A cipher understood by one and only one. The story of my life.

The days grow shorter and emptier. A glass drunk to the dregs. Barely enough wine left to wet a pair of parched lips.

Stupidity this fine must have been nurtured from an early age. I blame his mother.

Free will is a problematic concept at best.

I have nothing to offer but an unreasonable facsimile of hope.

In North America, it's Santa Claus and his caribou.

History changes, the past remains the same.

I have no active belief in God. Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence. I have been offered none. Thus, the existence or non-existence of a deity has no effect on how I live my life.

This is not the way it was supposed to be, this is not the way I wanted it to be, this is only the way it is.

In the democracy of the damned every wicked soul has his say.

My objective soul abuses my subjective heart.