She Might Have Wept Then, Had Not

Only The Soldier Pines And Sentinels Still Showed Green; The Broadleaf Trees Had Donned Mantles Of Russet And Gold, Or Else Uncloaked Themselves To Scratch Against The Sky With Branches Brown And Bare.

Spikes, " He Sighed. "heads. Walls.

The Truth Of It Is, Writers Do Have Peculiar Relationships With Their Characters. They Are Our Children In More Senses Than One. They Are Born Of Our Imaginations, Carry Much Of Ourselves In Them, And Embody Whatever Dreams We Dream Of Immortality.

Inside The Room, A Man And A Woman Were Wrestling. They Were Both Naked.

You Know, I've Always Considered Women To Be People.