No Reality Has The Power To Dispel

The Burning Of A Book Is A Sad, Sad Sight, For Even Though A Book Is Nothing But Ink And Paper, It Feels As If The Ideas Contained In The Book Are Disappearing As The Pages Turn To Ashes And The Cover And Binding--which Is The Term For The Stitching And Glue That Holds The Pages Together--blacken And Curl As The Flames Do Their Wicked Work. When Someone Is Burning A Book, They Are Showing Utter Contempt For All Of The Thinking That Produced Its Ideas, All Of The Labor That Went Into Its Words And Sentences, And All Of The Trouble That Befell The Author . . .

One's Home Is Like A Delicious Piece Of Pie You Order In A Restaurant On A Country Road One Cozy Evening - The Best Piece Of Pie You Have Ever Eaten In Your Life - And Can Never Find Again. After You Leave Home, You May Find Yourself Feeling Homesick, Even If You Have A New Home That Has Nicer Wallpaper And A More Efficient Dishwasher Than The Home In Which You Grew Up.

I Love No One But You, I Have Discovered, But You Are Far Away And I Am Here Alone. Then This Is My Life And Maybe, However Unlikely, I'll Find My Way Back There. Or Maybe, One Day, I'll Settle For Second Best. And On That Same Day, Hell Will Freeze Over, The Sun Will Burn Out And The Stars Will Fall From The Sky.

The Real Santa Claus Is At The Mall.

Who Would Dare Think That, Forever? Some Idiot Girl Who Wouldn’t Know How Things Played Out.