We're All Just Songs In The End.

Oh, My Sweet Summer Child," Old Nan Said Quietly, "what Do You Know Of Fear? Fear Is For The Winter, My Little Lord, When The Snows Fall A Hundred Feet Deep And The Ice Wind Comes Howling Out Of The North. Fear Is For The Long Night, When The Sun Hides Its Face For Years At A Time, And Little Children Are Born And Live And Die All In Darkness While The Direwolves Grow Gaunt And Hungry, And The White Walkers Move Through The Woods

We Know Truth For The Cruel Instrument It Is. Beauty Is Infinitely Preferable To Truth.

There Is Something Old And True In Fantasy That Speaks To Something Deep Within Us, To The Child Who Dreamt That One Day He Would Hunt The Forests Of The Night, And Feast Beneath The Hollow Hills, And Find A Love To Last Forever Somewhere South Of Oz And North Of Shangri-la.

She Had Put Despair And Fear Aside, As If They Were Garments She Did Not Choose To Wear.

We're All The Heroes Of Our Own Stories. So, When I Am Inside The Head Of A Character Who Would Otherwise Be Considered A Villain, I Have A Great Deal Of Affection For That Character And I'm Trying To See The World And The Events Through Their Eyes.