Anybody That Says Different Is Selling Something.

Westley Closed His Eyes. There Was Pain Coming And He Had To Be Ready For It. He Had To Prepare His Brain, He Had To Get His Mind Controlled And Safe From Their Efforts, So That They Could Not Break Him. He Would Not Let Them Break Him. He Would Hold Together Against Anything And All. If Only They Gave Him Sufficient Time To Make Ready, He Knew He Could Defeat Pain. It Turned Out They Gave Him Sufficient Time (it Was Months Before The Machine Was Ready). But They Broke Him Anyway.

Buttercup's Mother Whirled On Him. 'did You Forget To Pay Your Taxes?' (this Was After Taxes. But Everything Is After Taxes. Taxes Were Here Even Before Stew.)

One Way An Author Dies A Little Each Day Is When His Books Go Out Of Print.

I Can't Keep My Head Above Water One Minute To The Next: It's Not Just The Parties And The Goo-gooing With What's-her-name, I've Got The Decide How Long The Five Hundredth Anniversary Parade Is Going To Be And Where Does It Start And When Does It Start And Which Nobleman Gets To March In Front Of Which Other Nobleman So That Everyone's Still Speaking To Me At The End Of It, Plus I've Got A Wife To Murder And A Country To Frame For It, Plus I've Got To Get The War Going Once That's All Happened, And All This Is Stuff I've Got To Do Myself. Here's What It All Comes Down To: I'm Just Swamped, Ty.

Have Fun Storming The Castle!