Blessed I am with the gift of solitude—despite its terrible curse—rather than normalcy, and blindness to truth, worse.
Blessed I am with the gift of solitude—despite its terrible curse—rather than normalcy, and blindness to truth, worse.
Isn’t it only the indulgent man who can disdain himself enough to muster the hatred to look for the ugliness inside him—some men even with a grin and gallows humor?
The Prodigal