To Each Our Own Hamlet.

If The Real World Were A Book, It Would Never Find A Publisher. Overlong, Detailed To The Point Of Distraction-and Ultimately, Without A Major Resolution.

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!

History Has Rewritten Itself So Many Times I'm Not Really Sure How It Was To Begin With -- It's A Bit Like Trying To Guess The Original Color Of A Wall When It's Been Repainted Eight Times.

Writing Needs To Be Practiced; There Is A Limit To How Much Can Be Gleaned From A Teacher Or A Manual. The True Essence Of Writing Is Out There, In The World, And Inside, Within Yourself. To Write, You Have To Give.

There Are A Lot Of Idiots In This Country, And They Deserve Representation As Much As The Next Man.