This dawning Epoch, this age of reason. An empire grown fat, ripe for the bleeding.

He who makes a beast of himself removes himself from the pain of being human.

I held your hand and watched the blood pool between your legs. You lived long enough to see Edwin, but not Enoch. I will take care of them my love, I promise you this.

A cleansing fire always burns little Mandus, but it purifies and it makes anew. Did it hurt to carve out the fevered flesh? Did it hurt to cut free the gangrenous foot? Ask instead this: Can we save them?

Hands are bleeding, raw. I scrub and scrub but the smell will not lift. How can I hold my children with these hands now? How can I kiss them goodnight with lips that have issued such instruction?