knightbot

I take everything I'm feeling, everything that matters to me I push all of it into my fist, and I fight for it.

Say it's to reveal your true nature. To prove that you are as dark-hearted as the town that birthed you.

When anyone can be an artist, then the logical conclusion to draw is that anything can be art.

The afternoon my parents died, I was out shoplifting with Irene Klauson.

The reason my molars are so broken Is I spend too much time ghosting With the likes of you and yours

Lotsa respectable people get hit by trains.

I’ve seen it before. I’ve seen it over and over. Human history is one of struggle. Even so…

Like a block of wood not carved. The infinite possibility, the unlimited and unqualified wholeness of being the uncommitted, the non-acting, the uncarved being who, being nothing but himself, is everything.

Of course… I still wonder about every stranger who gives me a knowing look. About every cat who watches me too closely. I can only hope I reached her in some small way. I can only hope if she does come back, she’ll know me for who I am. A friend.

Not often, but now and again there’s a moment when the heart cries aloud: yes, I am willing to be that wild darkness, that long, blue body of light

I think I can go now. Just needed to do a couple of things. I needed to help someone; I think I did. And I needed to tell you something: you were never second, ever. I love you. You sleep now. Everything will be different in the morning.

I really hope I have unfinished business when I die, it’ll be the only proof I was alive

There are many things across the sea. You come from across the sea, too.

I’ve made it so that you can never hurt each other.

No one would remember that terrible things had once been done. Hyacinthus, they would say, died not slaughtered by kinsfolk to get food for them, but only because of a sorrowful mistake

They come. They fight. They destroy. They corrupt. It always ends the same. It only ends once. Anything that happens before that is just progress.

Last week most of us were strangers. But we're all here now. And God knows how long we're going to be here. But if we can’t live together, we are going to die alone.

She chose when and where she would die. She chose the meaning of her death, and she chose the method. Rare is that gift, isn’t it? Rare is the choice to write the end of your own story.”

You’re not the first one who thought you could help me or fix me or save me. You’re not the first one who thought you could care about me until you found out how bad it really was. They called you a monster too. But in the end you still took their side.

I need to cross a border that’s hard to define. Maybe you know what I’m talking about? Or you don’t but you feel it. Because you’ve felt other borders, like youth and adulthood. I can’t change your fate, but I can help you meet it. We begin our journey to the border tonight.