I Hereby Resolve To Kill Every Vampire

I Dare Say She Means To Keep You From His Attentions. Your Honour Demands She Be Slain.

If You're Stephen King And You Have A Massive Body Of Huge-selling Well-respected Work, You Can Pivot And Do Whatever You Want. I Don't Have That Body Of Work, I Don't Have That Audience That's Comfortable With Me Enough Yet To Follow My Bliss With Me.

Living Men Are Bound By Time... Thus, Their Lives Have An Urgency. This Gives Them Ambition. Makes Them Choose Those Things That Are Most Important, Cling More Tightly To That Which They Hold Dear. Their Lives Have Seasons, And Rites Of Passage, And Consequences. And Ultimately, An End. But What Of A Life With No Urgency? What Then Of Ambition? What Then Of Love?

He Begged To Know To Which Of His Fair Cousins The Excellency Of Its Cookery Was Owing. Briefly Forgetting Her Manners, Mary Grabbed Her Fork And Leapt From Her Chair Onto The Table. Lydia, Who Was Seated Nearest Her, Grabbed Her Ankle Before She Could Dive At Mr. Collins And, Presumably, Stab Him About The Head And Neck For Such An Insult.

I Nearly Broke Out Laughing When The Wrteched Soothsayer Warned Caesar: "beware The Ides Of April." I Thought It A Miracle (and A Relief) That No One In The Udience Had Snickered Or Yelled Out A Correction. How Could Such An Error Be Made By An Actor? Had My Ears Deceived Me?