All, or the greatest part of men that have aspired to riches or power, have attained thereunto either by force or fraud, and what they have by craft or cruelty gained, to cover the foulness of their fact, they call purchase, as a name more honest. Howsoever, he that for want of will or wit useth not those means, must rest in servitude and poverty.

We grow old judging othersAnd ourselvesUntil life humbles usAnd makes scared children of usLonging to hold another’s handTo hear their kind words And witness their kind deeds done on our behalf.But like children,We sabotage everythingFor nothing satisfies usUntil life crumbles usAnd we are no more.

...you have to bear witness to your dead. You simply have to. You have to step into their energy field of whatever remains of their spirit, their soul, their essence and let it pass through your body. And in the passing, maybe a wisp of it adheres to you, grafts itself to your cells. And in this communion, the dead continue to live. Or strive to.

Our individuality is all, all, that we have. There are those who barter it for security, those who repress it for what they believe is the betterment of the whole society, but blessed in the twinkle of the morning star is the one who nurtures it and rides it in, in grace and love and wit, from peculiar station to peculiar station along life's bittersweet route.

“Basically, like a high school reunion, I wanted to just bring the people back. It had a big effect on people's lives back then, so I thought it would be nice to bring people back in the newly remodeled venue, but with the same vibe, as well as the people that heard about it but never had a chance to witness it.”

We are here to witness. There is nothing else to do with those mute materials we do not need. Until Larry teaches his stone to talk, until God changes his mind, or until the pagan gods slip back to their hilltop groves, all we can do with the whole inhuman array is watch it.

We don't notice things change. We know that things change, we've been told since childhood that things change, we've witnessed things change ourselves many a time, and yet we're still utterly incapable of noticing the moment that change comes--or we search for change in all the wrong places.

A woman knows very well that, though a wit sends her his poems, praises her judgment, solicits her criticism, and drinks her tea, this by no means signifies that he respects her opinions, admires her understanding, or will refuse, though the rapier is denied him, to run through the body with his pen.

We see then how far the monuments of wit and learning are more durable than the monuments of power, or of the hands. For have not some books continued twenty-five hundred years or more, without the loss of a syllable or letter; during which time infinite palaces, temples, castles, and cities have been decayed and demolished?

For years she’d been the Central Gates Precinct’s Witness Retrieval Specialist – more commonly referred to as a “Ghost Yanker” by her non-magical colleagues on the force. Being stuck in the basement talking to dead victims would depress the hell out of anyone, if they did it for long enough. Then, six months ago, everything changed.