Tread carefully, now. Not even a god would survive sacrificing me.

I love this time of year. The dickheads start popping up.

Like moons make swell and wane the nescient seas, so too the sky-strewn gods ordain the tidal fates of mortal days. And yet - a notion born in lonely hours - come ebb, come flow, come all that is beyond the breadth of our dominion: be a moon unto yourself. Even the waves of fate can break upon the shores of will.

Kiss my arse. I'm the Lord of Murder - I'll show you why.

I want to wake up beside a handsome virgin every morning, but life doesn't give us what we want.