You Know, It's Been Proven That 35

You Have What I Can Afford To Give. You Are A Panhandler, Begging For Anything, And I Am The Man Walking Briskly By, Tossing A Quarter Or So Into Your Paper Cup. I Can Afford To Give You This. This Does Not Break Me.

The Raising Of A Child Is The Building Of A Cathedral. You Can't Cut Corners.

I Need Eight Hours To Get Maybe 20 Minutes Of Work Done. I Had One Of Those Yesterday: Seven Hours Of Self-loathing.

Then He Got More Books. He Saved All The Books.

But The Grind Has Begun. The Windows Don’t Open, And Even The Availability Of Near-constant Jokes About Jews And Mormons Fails To Stem The Tide Of Frustration, Decay. We’ve Reached The End Of Pure Inspiration, And Are Now Somewhere Else, Something Implying Routine, Or Doing Something Because People Expect Us To Do It, Going Somewhere Each Day Because We Went There The Day Before, Saying Things Because We Have Said Them Before, And This Seems Like The Work Of A Different Sort Of Animal, Contrary To Our Plan, And This Is Very Very Bad.