Ironically, I'm sick today. No, it doesn't feel good to be sick. That would be just oxymoronic. I wonder how people put up with faking a fever, when a fever really makes you feel like crap.

Where love exists, everything that had once held meaning becomes redundant, and irrationality is the sole rule of all that walks the planes of the earth.

Where there are questions, there may be answers. When one runs out of questions, one runs out of hope. Hope that there might be answers.

The entire world is more or less made up of half-truths and whole lies. One man's truth is another man's lie, and then suddenly everything seems to fall inexplicably out of balance. And then only one thing is certain, and that is nothing is ever certain.

Where life is full of all the embellishment we call happiness, we fear the unbearable, we shun the unthinkable. Where it is a living hell, there is hope, or there is hopelessness.

If there is no balance in the world, there can be no world.

Everybody lies.