The Mind Is An Intricate Mechanism That

Craziness Attacks The Softest Eyes And Hamstrings The Gentlest Flanks.

A Story Is A Living Thing, It Moves And Shifts.

Her Laughter Was A Shiny Thing, Like Pewter Flung High In The Air.

Love Had Always Issued Out Of The Places That Hurt The Most.

I Was Born Into The Century In Which Novels Lost Their Stories, Poems Their Rhymes, Paintings Their Form, And Music Its Beauty, But That Does Not Mean I Have To Like That Trend Or Go Along With It.