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“Am I insane?” Wax asked. If you were, speaking to a figment of your delusion would certainly not diagnose that fact. “You’re not helping much.” Then ask better questions, Waxillium.
“Lo, behold,” MeLaan said, wiggling her cup, “bring an offering to your deity in the form of one blue sunset, extra gin. And ye shall be blessed.” “I think I can do that,” Wayne said. “Bloody hell, maybe I am religious after all.”
Cleaning the wound is often more painful than the cut itself.
I rip out his tongue to stop the lies. I stab out his eyes to hide from his gaze. You will be free.
No, freedom was not lack of responsibilities—it was being able to do what was right, without having to worry if it was also wrong.
