Nothing Was More Valuable Than The Printed

A Thousand Times Today I've Started To Open My Mouth, Started To Squeak Out, "can You Tell Me...? But Then I'd Look Into The Front Seat, At My Mother's Silent Shaking, My Father's Grim Profile, The Mournful Bags Under His Eyes, And All The Questions I Might Ask Seemed Abusive. Assault And Battery, A Question Mark Used Like A Club. My Parents Are Old And Fragile. I'd Have To Heartless To Want To Hurt Them.

I Don't Know What You Two Are Up To," Hobart Said. "but You Be Careful Now, You Hear? Don't Do Anything I Wouldn't Do." "well Now, That Doesn't Restrict Us Very Much, Does It?" Mark Teased Back.

It's Just So Much Fun To Make Up Characters, Situations, And Everything Else About A Story. I Have So Much Freedom And Flexibility To Do Whatever I Want.

That Porch Is A Happy-looking Place, And My Father - Burdened, Stoop-shouldered, Cadaverously Thin - Doesn't Seem To Belong On It.

I Like Playing Around With The Words; I Love It When I Feel Like I've Picked The Exact Right Word To Describe Whatever It Is I'm Trying To Describe