This was what men fought for, what men died for: a chance at life, and to fight on other days - the battle of your choice, of the body, or the heart, or the soul.
Life was never simple, happiness never where you thought you'd left it, and right and wrong no more fixed than clouds in the sky.
Wisdom, Niko thought as he leaned his cheek against his long-handled rake, cannot be had without price. And that price is blood. The sound of it in your veins. The pound of it in your head. The volume of it in a human body; the sickness when you've spilled it.
The Fates are here because of supernal anger, celestial imbalance, and arrogance of men and gods that must be curbed.
Nothing he knew of, enunciated life like death.
Fight for life itself and everlasting freedom of the human spirit.
The meaning of life, Nikodemos, is to live life with meaning. The purpose of life is merely to live it, perhaps to give it.
For the gift of life, the only true thanks was in living fully, and facing death with honor.
Men live, and then they die. It is the quality of the process of living which matters, that and that alone.
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