All music  just makes me cry.

None of these peasants of thought will ever know what you are to me.

I went to an old house that had no doors.
I didnt know I wasnt supposed to come in.
It had many rooms, each one dark.
Wet passages, damp halls. All dark.
Fear receded after a while. Then, dark joy.
I went there. Then I went there again.
It made me weary. It also gave me comfort.
I went to an old house that had no doors.
There was a mirror on the wall in a corner.
The room was dark. The mirror showed not my face.
I didnt know I wasn't supposed to come in.

When you are a fatalist, as every man will become at some point, truth will become the only  recourse.
Even scientific truth. In fact, especially that.

Which is a more heinous crime - to take a life, or, to make one?

If you relive your entire life at the end then you don't really die. Nor is there an end.

I can't, and have never, let my guard down.