Reading Is The Creative Center Of A

Jake Went In, Aware That He Had, For The First Time In Three Weeks, Opened A Door Without Hoping Madly To Find Another World On The Other Side. A Bell Jingled Overhead. The Mild, Spicy Smell Of Old Books Hit Him, And The Smell Was Somehow Like Coming Home.

Death Is When The Monsters Get You.

Small Towns Harbor Small Imaginations.

Overhead Was A Sky Blacker Than Jewlers' Velvet, And A Billion Stars Screamed Down.

If You Don't Have The Time To Read, You Don't Have The Time Or The Tools To Write.