If Everyone Fought Fire With Fire, The

But It's Far Too Late For Us; Ring, Hair, Letters, Photographs - All Traces Of Our Love Will Be Scattered Then, Like An Anagram.

Boredom Is Not Black Licorice, Snicket," She Said. "there's No Reason To Share It With Me.

The Burning Of A Book Is A Sad, Sad Sight, For Even Though A Book Is Nothing But Ink And Paper, It Feels As If The Ideas Contained In The Book Are Disappearing As The Pages Turn To Ashes And The Cover And Binding--which Is The Term For The Stitching And Glue That Holds The Pages Together--blacken And Curl As The Flames Do Their Wicked Work. When Someone Is Burning A Book, They Are Showing Utter Contempt For All Of The Thinking That Produced Its Ideas, All Of The Labor That Went Into Its Words And Sentences, And All Of The Trouble That Befell The Author . . .

He Looked Like The Sort Of Person Who Would Tell You That He Did Not Have An Umbrella To Lend You When He Actually Had Several And Simply Wanted To See You Get Soaked.

I Wore It, This Careless Thing You Don't Even Remember Giving To Me From Your Bag. It Wasn't A Gift, This Thing I'm Returning. It Was Barely A Gesture, Almost Forgotten Already, This Thing I Wore Like It Was Dear To Me. And It Was. No Wonder We Broke Up.