God Took Pattern After A Pine Tree

The Monstropolous Beast Had Left His Bed. The Two Hundred Miles A Hour Wind Had Loosed His Chains. He Seized Hold Of His Dikes And Ran Forward Until He Met The Quarters; Uprooted Them Like Grass And Rushed On After His Supposed-to-be Conquerors, Rolling The Dikes, Rolling The Houses, Rolling The People In The Houses Along With Other Timbers. The Sea Was Walking The Earth With A Heavy Heel.

There Is Something About Poverty That Smells Like Death.

Every Morning The World Flung Itself Over And Exposed The Town To The Sun.

I Had Hundreds Of Books Under My Skin Already. Not Selected Reading, All Of It. Some Of It Could Be Called Trashy. I Had Been Through Nick Carter, Horatio Alger, Bertha M. Clay And The Whole Slew Of Dime Novelists In Addition To Some Really Constructive Reading. I Do Not Regret The Trash. It Has Harmed Me In No Way. It Was A Help, Because Acquiring The Reading Habit Early Is The Important Thing. Taste And Natural Development Will Take Care Of The Rest Later On.

There Is Something About Poverty That Smells Like Death. Dead Dreams Dropping Off The Heart Like Leaves In A Dry Season And Rotting Around The Feet; Impulses Smothered Too Long In The Fetid Air Of Underground Caves. The Soul Lives In Sickly Air. People Can Be Slaveships In Shoes.