“Death, only, renders hope futile.” — Edgar Rice Burroughs

I loved her. I still love her, though I curse her in my sleep, so nearly one are love and hate, the two most powerful and devasting emotions that control man, nations, life.

She did not admire him any more than she had. It was merely that she considered him the Lesser of two evils.

Were there no desire there would be no virtue, and because one man desires what another does not, who shall say whether the child of his desire be Vice or Virtue?

I write to escape; to escape poverty.