I'm Afraid To Breathe In Case I

You Work Hard On A Book And Throw It Out There And Then It's Beyond Your Control.

So What If I'm Ninety-three? So What If I'm Ancient And Cranky And My Body's A Wreck? If They're Willing To Accept Me And My Guilty Conscience, Why The Hell Shouldn't I Run Away With The Circus?

At This Moment, The Story In His Head Was Perfect. He Also Knew From Experience That It Would Degenerate The Second He Started Typing, Because Such Was The Nature Of Writing.

After Sixty-one Years Together, She Simply Clutched My Hand And Exhaled.

I Am Ninety. Or Ninety-three. One Or The Other.