She's Always Thought That One Of The

The Tunnels Of Our Lives Connect, Coming To Daylight At The Oddest Moments, And Then Plunge Us Into The Dark Again. We Return To The Lives Of Those Who Have Gone Before Us, A Perplexing Möbius Strip Until We Come Home, Eventually, To Ourselves.

Even If You're Going To Die, You Might As Well Die Pretty.

I'm Not So Sure That I Can Teach People How To, You Know, Write Dialogue Or Create Plot Or Anything Like That. But If I Can Get Them And Grab Them By The Scruff Of The Neck And Say, You Can Do This, And If I See That Fire In Their Eyes, That's When I Think I Know A Writer.

He Realized That He Had Thought Only About The First Step, Never Imagined The Last.

I Know Already That I Will Return To This Day Whenever I Want To. I Can Bid It Alive. Preserve It. There Is A Still Point Where The Present, The Now, Winds Around Itself, And Nothing Is Tangled. The River Is Not Where It Begins Or Ends, But Right In The Middle Point, Anchored By What Has Happened And What Is To Arrive.