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The clouds would be indifferent to the blood that would be spilt beneath, dark in their racing shadows. - (Renegades of Gor, Chapter 16, Sentence #512)

I was no lover of Ar or Cos. The trumpets would surely sound any moment. The sky was calm enough, oblivious of a pending tumult beneath. The clouds would be indifferent to the blood that would be spilt beneath, dark in their racing shadows. What occurred here would surely be insignificant in the face of the universe. What small expanse of meaning was this, compared to the magnitudes of space? How tiny the disturbances and exertions of the afternoon must seem, compared to the dissolution and formation of worlds, and the turmoils wrought in the depths of incandescent orbs? Yet there was feeling and consciousness here and they, flickering it seemed in the darkness, tiny and frail, seemed to me in that moment to blaze in dimensions unfamiliar to the physicist, and in their own world and way to dwarf and mock the insensate placidities of space. Should the eye which opens on the awesomeness of the universe not apprehend as well the awesomeness of its own seeing? In man has the universe not come to self-consciousness, surprised that it should exist? Where then was Aemilianus? It was not my fight. - (Renegades of Gor)