You can hide from the devil, but he'll always find you.
Death, but not for you, gunslinger. Never for you. You darkle. You tinct. May I be brutally frank? You go on.
Dreadful is the mysterious power of fate; there is no deliverance from it by wealth or by war, by walled city or dark, seabeaten ships.
This day's black fate on more days doth depend; This but begins the woe, others must end.
The devil comes to bring a fate you couldn't imagine in your wildest dream.
How shall I speak of Doom, and ours in special, But as of something altogether common?
some angels are destined to fall
The blackest ink of fate are sure my lot, And when fate writ my name it made a blot.
