Perhaps Things Are Most Beautiful When They

The Shelf Was Filled With Books That Were Hard To Read, That Could Devastate And Remake One's Soul, And That, When They Were Finished, Had A Kick Like A Mule.

...to Be Paid For One's Joy Is To Steal.

Lonely People Have Enthusiasms Which Cannot Always Be Explained. When Something Strikes Them As Funny, The Intensity And Length Of Their Laughter Mirrors The Depth Of Their Loneliness, And They Are Capable Of Laughing Like Hyenas. When Something Touches Their Emotions, It Runs Through Them Like Paul Revere, Awakening Feelings That Gather Into Great Armies.

Winter Then In Its Early And Clear Stages, Was A Purifying Engine That Ran Unhindered Over City And Country, Alerting The Stars To Sparkle Violently And Shower Their Silver Light Into The Arms Of Bare Upreaching Trees. It Was A Mad And Beautiful Thing That Scoured Raw The Souls Of Animals And Man, Driving Them Before It Until They Loved To Run. And What It Did To Northern Forests Can Hardly Be Described, Considering That It Iced The Branches Of The Sycamores On Chrystie Street And Swept Them Back And Forth Until They Rang Like Ranks Of Bells.

They Were Dancing Around The Fountain, Arm In Arm, In An Old Dutch Dance, Their Cheeks Touching, Their Hands Entwined. They Had No Music; They Hummed. And There Was No Reason For Them To Be Dancing That Peter Lake Could See, Except That It Was An Exceptionally Beautiful Night.