Ordered Me A Sky From A Florist

The End Of All Stories, Even If The Writer Forebears To Mention It, Is Death, Which Is Where Time Stops Short. Sheherezade Knew This, Which Is Why She Kept On Spinning Another Story Out Of The Bowels Of The Last One, Never Coming To A Point Where She Could Say: "this Is The End." Because It Would Have Been.

He Is, I Think, Already Pondering A Magisterial Project: That Of Buggering The English Language, The Ultimate Revenge Of The Colonialised.

That Is What I'm Looking Forward To The Most, Practical Learning. I Want To Be A Registered Nurse So Getting To Talk To People Who Already Work In Those Jobs Can Really Teach Me What To Expect When I Get Out In The Real World.

To Pin Your Hopes Upon The Future Is To Consign Those Hopes To A Hypothesis, Which Is To Say, A Nothingness. Here And Now Is What We Must Contend With.

What Would The Daughters Of The Rich Do With Themselves If The Poor Ceased To Exist?