In Hollywood, No One Knows Anything.

The Tears That Kept Buttercup Company The Remainder Of The Day Were Not At All Like Those That Had Blinded Her Into The Tree Trunk. Those Were Noisy And Hot; They Pulsed. These Were Silent And Steady And All They Did Was Remind Her That She Wasn’t Good Enough. She Was Seventeen, And Every Male She’d Ever Known Had Crumbled At Her Feet And It Meant Nothing. The One Time It Really Mattered, She Wasn’t Good Enough.

Inside And Out, Westley's World Was Ripping Apart And He Could Do Nothing But Crack Along With It.

He Was The Mighty Fezzik, Lover Of Rhymes, And You Did Not Give Up, No Matter What.

One Of The Easiest Things In The World Is Not To Write... If It Were Easy, Everyone Would Do It.

Good Night, Westley. Good Work. Sleep Well. I'll Most Likely Kill You In The Morning.