Even If Your Goose Habitually Lays Golden

Nobody Died. How Can You Kill An Idea? How Can You Kill The Personification Of An Action?" "then What Died? Who Are You Mourning?" "a Point Of View.

Then One Stupid Person, No Different From Any Other Stupid Person, Wanders Into Your Stupid Life... You Give Them A Piece Of You. They Don't Ask For It. They Do Something Dumb One Day, Like Kiss You Or Smile At You, And Then Your Life Isn't Your Own Anymore.

My Ideal Reader Is Me. And Yes, My Ideal Reader Comes With Me And Is Forgiving.

I Lay On The Bed And Lost Myself In Stories. I Liked That. Books Were Safer Than Other People Anyways.

We Do What We Do, Because Of Who We Are. If We Did Otherwise, We Would Not Be Ourselves.