It's A Hard Life If You Don't

All Is Forgotten In The Stone Halls Of The Dead. These Are The Rooms Of Ruin Where The Spiders Spin And The Great Circuits Fall Quiet, One By One.

We Either Learn To Accept Or We End Up Writing Letters Home With Crayons.

The Old Sleep Poorly. Perhaps They Stand Watch.

When You're Five And You Hurt, You Make A Big Noise In The World. At Ten You Whimper. But By The Time You Make Fifteen You Begin To Eat The Poisoned Apples That Grow On Your Own Inner Tree Of Pain.

Writers Are Often The Worst Judges Of What They Have Written.