Everyone Wants To Write A Book. Very

Houdini, The Magician Who Debunked Magic, Could Not Bear To See The Great Rationalist [arthur Conan] Doyle Enchanted By Ghosts And Frauds. And So He Did What Any Friend Would: He Set Out To Prove Spiritualism False And Rob His Friend Doyle Of The Only Comforting Fiction That Was Keeping Him Sane. It Was The Least He Could Do.

I've Only Ever Been Mistaken For Myself. People Draw A Lot Of Comparisons To All Of The Round-faced, Mustached Men Of Entertainment That Make Me Cringe And Sick To My Stomach About How The World Really Sees Me And They're Right.

I Navigated The World As A Hedge Maze Of Constant Fear And Worry In Which I Might Take The Wrong Turn And Jeopardize The Love Of Everyone Around Me And Everyone On Earth. That's What I Needed In Order To Survive.

I Believe That By Releasing "passing Interest/low Keepsake-value Literature" From The Burden Of Physicality, You Are Actually Releasing The Words From Their Worst Liability: The Price And Inconvenience Of Actual Bookness.

All I Can Ask From Society Is That It Please Stop Telling Me Why I Should Like Sports.