The Rain's Innumerable Hooves Spatter On The

Teachers're Always Using That "in Your Own Words." I Hate That. Authors Knit Their Sentences Tight. It's Their Job. Why Make Us Unpick Them, Just To Put It Back Together More Shonkily? How're You S'posed To Say Kapellmeister If You Can't Say Kapellmeister?

A Half-read Book Is A Half-finished Love Affair.

Autumn Is Leaving Its Mellowness Behind For Its Spiky, Rotted Stage. Don't Remember Summer Even Saying Goodbye.

Maybe Then You Comprehend, Speaking One Language Only Is A Prison!

We Are Only What We Know, And I Wished To Be So Much More Than I Was, Sorely.