That, My Dear, Is What Makes A

My Fingers Positively Itched To Drift At Length Along Their Spines, To Arrive At One Whose Lure I Could Not Pass, To Pluck It Down, To Inch It Open, Then To Close My Eyes And Inhale The Soul-sparking Scent Of Old And Literate Dust.

Hope's One Thing, Expectation's Quite Another.

We're All Unique, Just Never In The Ways We Imagine.

Sometimes, Edie, A Person's Feelings Aren't Rational. At Least, They Don't Seem That Way On The Surface. You Have To Dig A Little Deeper To Understand What Lies At The Base

True Love, It's Like An Illness. I Never Understood It Before. In Books And Plays. Poems. I Never Understood What Drove Otherwise Intelligent, Right-thinking People To Do Such Extravagant, Irrational Things. Now I Do. It's An Illness. You Can Catch It When You Least Expect. There's No Known Cure. And Sometimes, In Its Most Extreme, It's Fatal.