It's Unrealistic To Live Your Life Within

I Tend To Show Everything I Do To My Family, To Check They Won't Be Offended.

I've Never Gone On Facebook And Am Not Sure I Understand It. The Same Goes For Twitter. I Have Someone Sending Tweets And Pretending To Be Me, But I Don't Know Why.

You Meet People Who Say, "oh, I'd Like To Do Such-and-such, But I Don't Have The Time." But It Always Seemed To Me Like You Make The Time. And If You Have A Wife Or A Job, If You Have Kids Or Whatever, You Find A Way. If You Really Want To Do It, You Make The Time.

When Her Muzzle Grew More White Than Brown, The Chipmunk Forgot That She And The Squirrel Had Had Nothing To Talk About. She Forgot The Definition Of "jazz" As Well And Came To Think Of It As Every Beautiful Thing She Had Ever Failed To Appreciate: The Taste Of Warm Rain; The Smell Of A Baby; The Din Of A Swollen River, Rushing Past Her Tree And Onward To Infinity.

The Walking Tour Guides One Through The City's Various Landmarks, Reciting Bits Of Information The Listener Might Find Enlightening. I Learned, For Example, That In The Late 1500s My Little Neighborhood Square Was A Popular Spot For Burning People Alive. Now Lined With A Row Of Small Shops, The Tradition Continues, Though In A Figurative Rather Than Literal Sense.