War was never so careful as to inflict suffering only where it was merited. — Orson Scott Card

The first of a thousand lies. Truth flowed to Micah Quill, was sucked in and disappeared, and emerged again looking ever so much like it used to, but changed subtly, at the edges, where none would notice, so that simple truth became a complicated fabric indeed, one that could wrap you up so tightly and close you off from the air until you suffocated in it.

Around here, ma'am, if folks got they mouth open, if they ain't eating then they lying.

When I am drunk I am at my best. It is the national knack of the French.