I Thought, I Fanced, That In A

His Dreams Had Always Been Houdiniesque: They Were The Dreams Of A Pupa Struggling In Its Blind Cocoon, Mad For A Taste Of Light And Air.

When I'm Writing Solitude Feels Very Good. But When I'm Not Writing It Feels Lonely... Having A Big Family Solves That Problem.

And Then The Man Reminded Max, With A Serious But Suave And Practiced Air, That Freedom Was A Debt That Could Be Repaid Only By Purchasing The Freedom Of Others.

Every Day Is Like A Kid's Drawing, Offered To You With A Strange Mix Of Ceremoniousness And Offhand Disregard, Yours For The Keeping. Some Of The Days Are Rich And Complicated, Others Inscrutable, Others Little More Than A Stray Gray Mark On A Ragged Page. Some You Manage To Hang On To, Though Your Reasons For Doing So Are Often Hard To Fathom. But Most Of Them You Just Ball Up And Throw Away.

I Can Imagine Anything Except Having No Imagination.