The Enemy Is The Tyranny

The Odor Of Frying Bacon, Sausage Links, And Ham Tiptoed On Little Pig Feet All The Way To The North End Of The Second Floor. Inevitably, The Odor Made Her Simultaneously Ravenous And Nauseated. She Hated The Sensation. It Reminded Her Of Pregnancy. Every Sunday Morning, Leigh-cheri Awoke To A Pan Of Fried Fear.

There's Birth, There's Death, And In Between There's Maintenance.

Reality Is Contradictory. And It's Paradoxical.

There Are Stories Still In Existence That I Wrote When I Was Five. However, I Did Not Get Published Until I Was Seven.

Any Half-awake Materialist Well Knows - That Which You Hold Holds You.