Death Really Did Not Matter To Him

This Soup Tastes Like Windows

Blood Circulated Through Her Veins With The Fluidity Of A Song That Branched Off Into The Most Hidden Areas Of Her Body And Returned To Her Heart, Purified By Love.

In The End All Books Are Written For Your Friends. The Problem After Writing One Hundred Years Of Solitude Was That Now I No Longer Know Whom Of The Millions Of Readers I Am Writing For; This Upsets And Inhibits Me. It's Like A Million Eyes Are Looking At You And You Don't Really Know What They Think.

Cease, Cows, Life Is Short.

Let Me Stay Here," He Said. "there Was Soap.