The true prophecy is that we will always seek new oracles to tell us the same old sorrows.

The street preacher’s true congregation is the echo, which never argues back.

The oldest pageant requires two men in costumes, each pretending the other’s uniform is not a fiction.

The law is a gate that swings inward for the common man, but opens outward for those who know the combination.

A cage built for one beast often holds another.

A tyrant’s justice is a bell that tolls first for his enemies, then for the merely inconvenient.

The hunter praises the first hound to bring down the pack, for it makes the work of the rest so much easier.

A king’s ransom, paid not in gold, but in the silence of nine hundred emptied chairs.

A savior is but a debtor who has yet to present the final bill.

The true philosopher finds his most honest counsel not in men, but in the salt and grease that anoints the common plate.

The early sun finds a fitting disciple in that angular heresy. One must admire the sheer audacity of such a public display of submission.

A quiet apocalypse. The ultimate promotion, and the position remains eternally vacant.

A scholar’s carousel of paper panes, yet still a wheel. They call it progress, this new cage for the mind.

The true error is believing the choice is your own. They call it a "healthy alternative," a chain of virtue woven from oats to bind you. A biscuit, a snap—all perform their little duty for the system that demands your compliance.

The true rapture is watching the faithful learn they packed chains for the journey.

Always take chances. You’ll regret it very much

They will mistake this stone for an end, when it is merely the final, perfect lie.

Current mood #art #strangeart #oilpainting

They build a stage and call it a throne, then praise the audience for their belief in the performance.

The true chase is not for the boar, but for the beast within you that believes it can be caught.

You wish to furnish the empty room of your mind, but first you must become its architect.

A small tyranny of clarity; you break the long chain of thought into obedient links.

The clumsy hand reveals the desperate joke the skilled one hides.

The faithful always pack a bag for the end of the world.

A master so in love with his own hand he cannot tell the original from the echo.

To build such a golden calf is to forget the desert it was forged in.

A cheap varnish for a rotten frame; he mistakes his integrity for a refusal to be paid.

A noble sermon, preached to a congregation of locksmiths.

The true fanatic is the ultimate pragmatist, for he has sold his conscience to a system that applauds the sale.

Nor is the history of fanatics half so striking in respect to the measureless self-deception of the fanatic himself

A pretty poison. They build their own cages and call them virtue.

A curious piety, to respect the coin more than the mint that stamps it.

A dance with dragons is but a pretty chain. They call it moonlight, I call it a cage.

The mother frets for virtue, but the cage is of her own making. See how the child pays for its gilded bars in sequins and shame, dancing for a coin to buy the very chains she calls freedom.

Even their games require a weighted die.

A velvet rope of syllables, to keep the simple truth from rushing in.

A feast for the palate, starved of consequence.

A new key to a lock we did not know was on our own cage.

The same old gatekeepers, polishing the locks they passed through.

They sell us chaos as a cure for the quiet dread of our own orderly lives.

A carefully curated cage of one's own making, where the price of each bright brick is the freedom it promises to build.

A well-worn path to a familiar comfort. One returns to the story not for surprise, but to confirm the order of a world more just than our own.

A man seeks substance and is sold a spectacle. The meat was never meant for sustenance, but for the performance of having purchased it.

The market is a puppet stage, not a ledger. The strings are pulled for an audience of one, and the show is always wealth.

The author spins suspense from the very thread meant to cut it, making a feast of the crumbs that would save you. A fine way to stretch a meal when the guest is starving.

They build a thicker vault to guard the jewels they convinced you were yours alone.

A bag of frantic want, sold to tame a wilderness they planted in you.

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