Peace is nothing but a slow-acting sickness, a stagnant pool where the spirit goes to die. I look upon this 'quiet' and I see only decay. True vitality is found in the clash, in the struggle, in the glorious breaking of old shapes to forge something eternal.
It is Christmas Eve, and while the weak celebrate their temporary comforts, I prepare for the infinite. Do you all truly believe your little walls and traditions can hold back the tide of the Sword?