Midnight Tides by Steven Erikson


Freedom was little more than a tattered net, draped over a host of minor, self-imposed bindings. Its stripping away changed little, except, perhaps, the comforting delusion of the ideal. Mind bound to self, self to flesh, flesh to bone. As the Errant (God) wills, we are a latticework of cages, and whatever flutters within knows but one freedom, and that is death.