Sorry," [hamlet] Said, Rubbing His Temples. "i

Once Upon A Midnight Dreary, While I Pondered Weak And Weary, O’er A Plan To Venge Myself Upon That Cursed Thursday Next- This Eyre Affair, So Surprising, Gives My Soul Such Loath Despising, Here I Plot My Temper Rising, Rising From My Jail Of Text. “get Me Out!” I Said, Advising, “pluck Me From This Jail Of Text- Or I Swear I’ll Wring Your Neck!

Our Notions Of Self-determination Are, On The Whole, Something Of A Myth. We Are Governed Almost Exclusively By Our Own Peculiar Habits, Which Makes Those Who Rail Against Them That Much More Remarkable.

I Didn't Set Out To Discover A Truth. I Was Actually Sent To The Outer Fringes To Conduct A Chair Census And Learn Some Humility. But The Truth Inevitably Found Me, As Important Truths Often Do, Like A Lost Thought In Need Of A Mind.

The Cleanest Souls Are The Easiest To Soil.

To Espresso Or To Latte, That Is The Question...whether 'tis Tastier On The Palate To Choose White Mocha Over Plain...or To Take A Cup To Go. Or A Mug To Stay, Or Extra Cream, Or Have Nothing, And By Opposing The Endless Choice, End One's Heartache.