Whenever I Write A Novel, Music Just

"i Believe You," She Whispers After A Moment. "please Find My Mind."

What I Feel For Her Is A Wholly Different Emotion. It Stands And Walks On Its Own, Living And Breathing And Throbbing And Shaking Me To The Roots Of My Being.

Even Castles In The Sky Can Do With A Fresh Coat Of Paint.

Forgive Me For Stating The Obvious, But The World Is Made Up Of All Kinds Of People.

The Pure Present Is An Ungraspable Advance Of The Past Devouring The Future. In Truth, All Sensation Is Already Memory.