Sam Higton

“Well,” she said, “better on a gambler’s back than on a warrior’s arm, I suppose.” Did she look at me then? I think she did. “I doubt much harm will come to it from scolding dogsellers in a starving town.”
― Christopher Buehlman, The Daughters' War

“The angel of Death who holdeth The bronze Lamp beyond the golden door Hath taken thee into dark Waters”
― Stephen King, 'Salem's Lot

“How many of these do you suppose will be alive at this time to-morrow?" asked Sir Henry. I shook my head and looked again at the sleeping men, and to my tired and yet excited imagination it seemed as though Death had already touched them. My mind's eye singled out those who were sealed to slaughter, and there rushed in upon my heart a great sense of the mystery of human life, and an overwhelming sorrow at its futility and sadness. To-night these thousands slept their healthy sleep, to-morrow they, and many others with them, ourselves perhaps among them, would be stiffening in the cold; their wives would be widows, their children fatherless, and their place know them no more for ever. Only the old moon would shine on serenely, the night wind would stir the grasses, and the wide earth would take its rest, even as it did æons before we were, and will do æons after we have been forgotten. Yet man dies not whilst the world, at once his mother and his monument, remains. His name is lost, indeed, but the breath he breathed still stirs the pine-tops on the mountains, the sound of the words he spoke yet echoes on through space; the thoughts his brain gave birth to we have inherited to-day; his passions are our cause of life; the joys and sorrows that he knew are our familiar friends—the end from which he fled aghast will surely overtake us also! Truly the universe is full of ghosts, not sheeted churchyard spectres, but the inextinguishable elements of individual life, which having once been, can never die, though they blend and change, and change again for ever.”
― H. Rider Haggard, King Solomon's Mines

“We’re getting these people ready for a war, Sam. And not the fun kind of war that they make movies about. The bad kind of war. The kind they write poetry about,”
― Chris Farnell, Fermi's Progress 2. Descartesmageddon