It Stared At Them, And

All Writers Have This Vague Hope That The Elves Will Come In The Night And Finish Any Stories.

All Around Me Darkness Gathers, Fading Is The Sun That Shone, We Must Speak Of Other Matters, You Can Be Me When I'm Gone Flowers Gathered In The Morning, Afternoon They Blossom On, Still Are Withered In The Evening, You Can Be Me When I'm Gone.

I Think I've Got Fear Down, But How Do I Take It All The Way Up To Terror?

Honestly, If You're Given The Choice Between Armageddon Or Tea, You Don't Say "what Kind Of Tea?"

I Think Of Myself As A Very Lazy Author.