I don't expect to make old bones, and what's more I don't really care.

No one here gets out alive.

I cannot believe in the immortality of the soul. No, all this talk of an existence for us, as individuals, beyond the grave is wrong. It is born of our tenacity of life - our desire to go on living - our dread of coming to an end.

I mean, whatever kills you kills you, and your death is authentic no matter how you die.

Of bones the city is made, Plastered with flesh and blood, Where decay and death are deposited, And pride, and ingratitude.

A system of morality which is based on relative emotional values is a mere illusion, a thoroughly vulgar conception which has nothing sound in it and nothing true.