I Don't Take Accusations Of

Spring, If It Lingers More Than A Week Beyond Its Span, Starts To Hunger For Summer To End The Days Of Perpetual Promise. Summer In Its Turn Soon Begins To Sweat For Something To Quench Its Heat, And The Mellowest Of Autumns Will Tire Of Gentility At Last, And Ache For A Quick Sharp Frost To Kill Its Fruitfulness. Even Winter — The Hardest Season, The Most Implacable — Dreams, As February Creeps On, Of The Flame That Will Presently Melt It Away. Everything Tires With Time, And Starts To Seek Some Opposition, To Save It From Itself.

After All, Where Can The Glorious, The Goofy, And The God-like Stand Shoulder To Shoulder?

It’s Only When You’ve Lost Someone That You Realize The Nonsense Of That Phrase “it’s A Small World”. It Isn’t. It’s A Vast, Devouring World, Especially If You’re Alone.

Fear Is A Place Where You Just Tell The Truth

Being With People Makes Me Vomit. I Don't Like Em. I Never Did.