The heart of the hypocrite is hid in his breast; he masketh his words in the semblance of truth, while the business of his life is only to deceive.

People don’t want their lives fixed. Nobody wants their problems solved. Their dramas. Their distractions. Their stories resolved. Their messes cleaned up. Because what would they have left? Just the big scary unknown.

Our greatest pretenses are built up not to hide the evil and the ugly in us, but our emptiness. The hardest thing to hide is something that is not there.

Hypocrisy can afford to be magnificent in its promises; for never intending to go beyond promises; it costs nothing.

It was so much easier to blame it on them. It was bleakly depressing to think that they were us. If it was them, then nothing was anyone’s fault. If it was us, what did that make me? After all, I’m one of us. I must be. I’ve certainly never thought of myself as one

Fine words and an insinuating appearance are seldom associated with true virtue.

Maybe I wanted to hear it so badly that my ears betrayed my mind in order to secure my heart.

There’s some things that people don’t admit because they don’t like the way it sounds.

I detest that man who hides one thing in the depths of his heart, and speaks for another.