And what good is a voice when so few will listen?

We all have a choice—to be monsters or men. It is not a matter of blood, but a condition of the heart.

As I have said, you have no reason to trust me, and an excellent reason not to.

But maybe that isn't possible. Maybe the mind of the majority is always the healthy mind, simply by virtue of its numbers. Maybe it's the definition of madness to believe I'm right and everyone else if wrong, to find my thoughts rational and reasonable when almost the entire world finds them damaged and flawed.

She moves like beauty, she whispers to us of wind and forest—and she tells us stories, such stories that we wake in the night, dreaming dreams of a life long past. she reminds us of what we used to be.

She reminds us of what we could be.

He fought to destroy those monsters, yet found they never seemed to die—rising anew every dawn.