As long as we have children seeking unrealistic dreams, anything is possible.

— H.S. Crow

A violinist fiddled. With strings resigned for winter. Summer's light splintered.

— H.S. Crow

Be terrified. Nothing in life is certain. It does not owe you anything, and if it decides to take something from you, it will. You must accept this truth. Accept the dreadful possibility that your blind optimism is merely a fancied lie.

— H.S. Crow

Every key belongs to a lock, and every lock contains a secret. My mind churns for the truth that you hold. Why are you here? I never desired this for you, yet I am curious to know. Is this idle Gaul the answer I seek, or is it merely the old memory of a dream I thought I once lived?

— H.S. Crow

I will wait for you until the gold from the sun dwindles away.

— H.S. Crow

Let my sight end. Let the dark tides of NYX ebb away beneath the white sands of null. Let our pale mother spread once more!

— H.S. Crow

Liar! I know that you humans build your life in lies. It starts with your mortal lords and their fabricated gods. They use fictitious stories to impregnate the minds of people, and like herds of sheep they do as their told. With manipulation alone is enough to secure their reign. After all, is it not in your nature to be wanted and purposeful? It is such an easy game to play. I have observed this falsehood accepted by fathers and mothers over and over again. The idiocy becomes one with their children, and they become the infrastructure that not only sedates but corrodes the soul with instructed conformity. In the end, lies are all that you are.

— H.S. Crow

Little dove, tread carefully in your dreams. You are not alone in them. Others seek them too.

— H.S. Crow

Long ago, there was a dream within a dream that allowed joy to reign, but that youthful breath drifted away as swiftly as a summer rain. There was nothing left after the dawn, except for a world darkened by a King’s broken heart. Now only Morpheus induced silhouettes dance in these lightless plains. They dance in sequence to the sound of time – unmoved by existence – trapped in a single thought I hope lies within you.

— H.S. Crow

Over the obsidian hills and the sunken yellow dale, through the vast oceans of fog and the fires of nevermore, sits the fickle doors of the land of twilight. I will traverse it all, and execute righteous judgment on all that oppose me.

— H.S. Crow