The Secret Of Survival Is A Defective

I'm A Hopeless 19th-century Romantic.

Enormous Morning, Ponderous, Meticulous; Gray Light Streaking Each Bare Branch, Each Single Twig, Along One Side, Making Another Tree, Of Glassy Veins.

Everything We Do Is Tinged With The Knowledge That This May Be The Last Time That We Will Do This, And That Makes What We're Doing Incredibly Sweet.

What Is Money, After All? Almost Nothing, When One Has A Sufficiency Of It.

To Take Possession Of A City Of Which You Are Not A Native You Must First Fall In Love There.