You aren’t making art, you’re making corpses. Dead is dead. — Brent Weeks

Kylar woke two hours before dawn and briefly wondered if death would be too high a price to pay for a full night’s sleep.

“That pain you feel,” Master Blint said almost gently, “is the pain of abandoning a delusion. The delusion is meaning, Kylar. There is no higher purpose. There are no gods. No arbiters of right and wrong. I don’t ask you to like reality. I only ask you to be strong enough to face it. There is nothing beyond this.

Its limbs were loose, graceless, lying in an uncomfortable position. Unmoving. Just like any corpse. In life, every man was unique. In death every man was meat.