Louisiana Is A Fresh-air Mental Asylum.

Age Is A Peculiar Kind Of Thief. It Slips Up On You And Steps Inside Your Skin And Is So Quiet And Methodical In Its Work That You Never Realize It Has Stolen Your Youth Until You Look Into The Mirror One Morning And See A Man You Don't Recognize.

Louisiana Is A Fresh-air Mental Asylum.

Don't Let Anyone Tell You That Age Purchases Your Freedom From Fear Of Death.

Why Do I Always Feel Like You're Trying To Staple My Umbilical Cord To The Corner Of Your Desk?

Is There A Design In The Events Of Our Lives? Or Do Things Just Happen, Much Like A Junk Yard Falling Down A Staircase? If It's The Latter, How Do You Deal With It?