The Good Thing About Masturbation Is That

My Yardstick Is How Somebody Treats Me.

I Hated Hemingway. I Liked Faulkner But He Was A Bore.

That's Not Writing, That's Typing

It Snowed All Week. Wheels And Footsteps Moved Soundlessly On The Street, As If The Business Of Living Continued Secretly Behind A Pale But Impenetrable Curtain. In The Falling Quiet There Was No Sky Or Earth, Only Snow Lifting In The Wind, Frosting The Window Glass, Chilling The Rooms, Deadening And Hushing The City. At All Hours It Was Necessary To Keep A Lamp Lighted, And Mrs. Miller Lost Track Of The Days: Friday Was No Different From Saturday And On Sunday She Went To The Grocery: Closed, Of Course.

Imagination, Of Course, Can Open Any Door - Turn The Key And Let Terror Walk Right In.