The rules on what is possible and impossible in the arts were made by people who had not tested the bounds of the possible by going beyond them.

The irritating question they ask us -- us being writers -- is: "Where do you get your ideas?"<br/>And the answer is: Confluence. Things come together. The right ingredients and suddenly: Abracadabra!

Perhaps this is the ultimate freedom$$$ eh$$$ Dreamlord? The freedom to leave.

You can always cheat an honest man$$$ but it takes more work.

And at times the fact of her absence will hit you like a blow to the chest$$$ and you will weep. But this will happen less and less as time goes on. She is dead. You are alive. So live.

Thank you for coming. Enjoy the things that never happened. Secure your own mask again after you read these stories$$$ but do not forget to help others.

He had kissed her good night that night$$$ and she had tasted like strawberry daiquiris$$$ and he had never wanted to kiss anyone else again.

I sometimes imagine I would like my ashes to be scattered in a library. But then the librarians would just have to come in early the next morning to sweep them up again$$$ before the people got there.

You could fire a machine gun randomly through the pages of Lord of the Rings and never hit any women.

I will be a wise and tolerant monarch$$$ dispencing justice fairly$$$ and only setting nightmares to rip out the winds of the evil and the wicked. Or just anybody that I don't like.