To Argue Without Knowledge Is Like Trying

Another Dead Body. Every Year It Is The Same. Every Year, Another Dead Body.

Ramses Had Always Been Fond Of Helen, In His Peculiar Fashion, But If He Had Looked At Me As He Was Looking At Her, I Would Have Sent For A Constable.

Who Are We Really? Combinations Of Common Chemicals That Perform Mechanical Actions For A Few Years Before Crumbling Back Into The Original Components? Fresh New Souls, Drawn At Random For Some Celestial Cupboard Where God Keeps An Unending Supply?or The Same Soul, Immortal And Eternal, Refurbished And Reused Through Endless Lives, By That Thrifty Housekeeper? In Her Wisdom And Benevolence She Wipes Off The Memory Slates, As Part Of The Cleaning Process, Because If We Could Remember All The Things We Have Experienced In Earlier Lives, We Might Object To Risking It Again.

I Don't Think She Realized How Much She Cared For Him, Or He For Her, Until The End. Hasn't Someone Said A Woman May Be Known By The Men Who Love Her Enough To Die For Her? (if They Haven't, I Claim The Credit Myself.)

There Was No Warning, Not Even A Knock. The Door Flew Open, And He Forgot His Present Aches And Pains In Anticipation Of What Lay In Store. The Figure That Stood In The Door Was Not That Of An Enemy. It Was Worse. It Was His Mother.