Jordan West

“Our teachers and troubadours stuffed our minds with the tales of our fathers - Aristotle and Arthur, Christ and Chretien. Our swordmasters swelled our thews with the steps and strikes of our fathers' fathers. Our thoughts tread again the paths first cut by our forebears' minds. Thus we hop and hew in the image of our fathers, and the fathers of our fathers. How might we then count ourselves new men, and not but shades of elder days, fleshed afresh in gaudy youth? Do we martyr ourselves upon knighthood's altar of our volition, or does some greater mind print its thumb upon us and so mold us into familar shape? What will lies within? What choice? Are we men, or the echoes of men, seeded once and springing forever from the same tired earth, watered forevermore by chivalry's iron unguent?”
― Graham Thomas Wilcox, Contra Amatores Mundi: A Gothic Fantasy

“What will happen in the morning when the world it gets so crowded that you can't look out your window in the morning?
And what will happen in the evening in the forest with the weasel with the teeth that bite so sharp when you're not looking in the evening?
And all the friends that you once knew are left behind they kept you safe and so secure
amongst the books and all the records of your lifetime?
What will happen? In the morning? When the world gets so crowded that you can't look out your window in the morning?”
― Nick Drake, Remembered for a While

“The twentieth century imposes its own special brand of monotony whenever it’s given a free hand, and it doesn’t seem to matter whether the government is capitalist or socialist or fascist; either way, the end result is a sort of Levittown of the mind.”
― Lawrence Block, Tanner's Twelve Swingers: An Evan Tanner Mystery

“Is life only a recurring dream or nightmare dredged up from the strata and layers of your subconscious? A fable or fairy tale you absorbed sitting on the lap of your monkey uncle or your ancestral ant? All the lies we had to tell just to survive, and all those who died, Who has any humanity left? What reason do we have to go on like this, depending on the little holidays and celebrations, birthdays, weddings and graduations, anniversaries, communions, baptisms, deaths, assassinations, all these events to mark our passage through space, crawling over the face of this earth with such determination and purpose? Is it only our fear of death that's kept us going so long? You cease, and then what? Will things change so much? You disintergrate into that churning flurry, our siblings of the earth, beetles and larvae, microbes and bacteria, tilling the soil with their mandibles and pincers, their claws, jaws and specialized proboscises, infusing and secreting acids and enzymes and detergents, they'll have us tilled up in no time, turned into compost, humus, ready for the spring planting. And that age-old problem of the thing called I? No more. Subsumed by we, they, the writhing mass of existence. For lack of a better word call it God, call it eternity. Better still, call down to the deli, order us all a pizza. We'll need our strength for the struggle ahead. To the ramparts, boys and girls. Carpe diem.”
― REYoung, Unbabbling