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Each day the memories weigh a little heavier. Each day they drag you down that bit further. You wind them around you, a single thread at a time, and you weave your own shroud, you build a cocoon, and in it madness grows.

Mark Lawrence

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Mark Lawrence
Age: 58
Born: 1966
Born: January 28
Author
Novelist
the United States of America
Memories
Weave
Bits
Weigh
Grows
Thread
Around
Drag
Shroud
Littles
Madness
Cocoon
Little
Build
Shrouds
Time
Wind
Cocoons
Single
Heavier

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There's a road to hell that is paved with good intentions but it's a long route. The quicker path is paved with the kind of ignorance that clever men who just don't want to know are best at.
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We can't be trapped by fear. Lives lived within such walls are just slower deaths.
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All lives are tales. Some spread, and grow in the telling. Others are just told between us and the gods, muttered back and forth behind our days, but those tales grow too and shake us just as fierce.
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I’ll tell you now. That silence almost beat me. It’s the silence that scares me. It’s the blank page on which I can write my own fears. The spirits of the dead have nothing on it. The dead one tried to show me hell, but it was a pale imitation of the horror I can paint on the darkness in a quiet moment.
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I think you need to have lived more to truly know a man's heart. You need to have made more transactions in life to know the worth of the coin you spend so freely
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When you take a woman away from her man, what you get is a woman who can be taken away from her man.
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Sometime, It's easier to love someone with flaws you can forgive in return for them forgiving yours.
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There’s something brittle in me that will break before it bends.
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You got responsibilities when you’re a leader. You got a responsibility not to kill too many of your men. Or who’re you going to lead?
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A strange thing — nails will hold a building together, but there's nothing better for taking a man apart.
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Some men are too dull to feel what might happen. Others torture themselves with maybes and populate their dreams with horrors more terrible than their worst enemy could inflict upon them.
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I wanted to go home and if Hell rose up to stop me, it would make me desire it more.
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Some truths should perhaps be left unsaid. Some doors unopened. An angel once told me to let go of the ills I held too close, to let go of the flaws that shaped me.
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I think maybe we die every day. Maybe we're born new each dawn, a little changed, a little further on our own road. When enough days stand between you and the person you were, you're strangers. Maybe that's what growing up is. Maybe I have grown up.
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For the longest time I studied revenge to the exclusion of all else. I built my first torture chamber in the dark vaults of imagination. Lying on bloody sheets in the Healing Hall I discovered doors within my mind that I'd not found before, doors that even a child of nine knows should not be opened. Doors that never close again. I threw them wide.
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And when pain bites, men bargain. Boys too. We twist and turn, we plead and beg, we offer our tormentors what he wants so that the hurting will stop. And when there is no torturer to placate, no hooded man with hot irons and tongs, just a burn you can't escape, we bargain with God, or ourselves, depending on the size of our egos.
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No half measures. Some things can’t be cut in half. You can’t half-love someone. You can’t half-betray, or half-lie.
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Few things worth having can be got easily.
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I maintain a balanced view of the world, but that balance is always in my favour.
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