How we envy your freedom, defiant bird of prey. Long have we sought the heights of your supremacy. What audacious courage bids you scan the Earth, with lofty and unflinching eyes.

You hang precarious, a Damoclean sword suspended by the thread of your own judgement, and then, with effortless fury, dare to plummet upon a confident and unsuspecting adversary.

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Give a farmer seeds and he'll create food.
Give a musician a melody and he'll create music.
Give a soldier an enemy and he'll create nothing; he only destroys, kills.
I wonder if God watches the events that unfurl when men take up arms against men,
And I'm afraid that, when I die, God will care about the things I've done,
But I think I'm more afraid that He won't; that He'll sit there, picking His nails, barely able to summon the energy to judge me,
Because what then?
What if bad men aren't judged fairly?
People tell me to fear Hell, but there comes a point that you've done such awful things that you have to wonder if the Devil will welcome you as a friend when you arrive.
The truth is: I don't believe in anything anymore.