When God closes a door, he opens a window. Yeah. The problem was that this particular window opened off the tenth story, and he wasn’t so sure God supplied parachutes.
When a man dies, it’s only him. And one is much like another. Aye, a family needs a man, to feed them, protect them. But any decent man can do it. A woman… A woman takes life with her when she goes. A woman is… infinite possibility.
The body is amazingly plastic. The spirit, even more so. But there are some things you don’t come back from. Say ye so, a nighean? True, the body’s easily maimed, and the spirit can be crippled—yet there’s that in a man that is never destroyed.
Never give anything away for free—but sometimes it pays to oil the wheels a bit.
Home is where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.
Catholics don’t believe in divorce. We do believe in murder. There’s always Confession, after all.
But even things that heal leave scars.
And in the end, it does not matter. I am what God has made me, and must deal with the Times in which He has placed me.
All loss is one, and one loss becomes all, a single death the key to the gate that bars memory.
A man’s life had to have more purpose than only to feed himself each day.