There's A Rule, I Think. You Get

With A Pencil And Paper, I Could Revise The World.

There Is A Peculiar Burning Odor In The Room, Like Explosives. The Kitchen Fills With Smoke And The Hot, Sweet, Ashy Smell Of Scorched Cookies. The War Has Begun.

Many Americans Think Of The Rest Of The World As A Kind Of Disneyland, A Showplace For Quaint Fauna, Flora And Artifacts. They Dress For Travel In Cheap, Comfortable, Childish Clothes, As If They Were Going To The Zoo And Would Not Be Seen By Anyone Except The Animals.

You Get Into The Habit Of Being Angry And Hurt By Life, And Then When Something Good Happens You Can't Accept It Because It Doesn't Fit The Pattern.

There's A Rule, I Think. You Get What You Want In Life, But Not Your Second Choice Too.