Our happiness here is all vain glory,
This false world is but transitory,
The flesh is weak, the Fiend is slee
Timor mortis conturbat me.
--William Dunbar
He's like fire and ice and rage. He's like the night and the storm and the heart of the sun. He's ancient and forever. He burns at the center of time and he can see the turn of the Universe. And ...he's wonderful.
When she transformed into a butterfly, the caterpillars spoke not of her beauty, but of her weirdness. They wanted her to change back into what she always had been. But she had wings. — Dean Jackson