The Trouble With Morning Is That It

What Do You Feel? I’ve Never Been Asked This Question Once. None Of Us Has. We Aren’t Supposed To Feel. We’re British.

Naughty John, Naughty John, Does His Work With His Apron On. Cuts Your Throat And Takes Your Bones, Sells 'em Off For A Coupla Stones.

Travel Opens Your Mind As Few Other Things Do. It Is Its Own Form Of Hypnotism, And I Am Forever Under Its Spell

The Sun Has Blessed You," Sarita Used To Say. "look How He Has Left His Kisses On Your Face For All To See And Be Jealous." "the Sun Loves You More," I Said, Rubbing My Hands Over Her Dry Arms, The Color Of An Aged Wine Gourd, And She Laughed. But This Is Not India And We Are Not Prized For Our Freckles Here. The Sun Is Not Allowed To Show His Love.

Simon, Would You Still Care For Me If You Discovered I Was Not Who I Say I Am?" What Do You Mean?" I Mean Would You Still Care For Me, No Matter What You Came To Know?" What A Thing To Ponder. I Don't Know What To Say." The Answer Is No. He Does Not Need To Say It. With A Sigh, Simon Digs At The Fire With The Iron Poker. Bits Of The Charred Log Fall Away, Revealing The Angry Insides. They Flare Orange For A Moment, Then Quiet Down Again. After Three Tries, He Gives Up. I'm Afraid This Fire's Had It." I Can See A Few Embers Remaining. "no, I Think Not. If..." He Sighs, And It Says Everything.