The stuff of nightmare is their plain bread. They butter it with pain. They set their clocks by deathwatch beetles, and thrive the centuries. They were the men with the leather-ribbon whips who sweated up the Pyramids seasoning it with other people's salt and other people's cracked hearts. They coursed Europe on the White Horses of the Plague. They whispered to Caesar that he was mortal, then sold daggers at half-price in the grand March sale. Some must have been lazing clowns, foot props for emperors, princes, and epileptic popes. Then out on the road, Gypsies in time, their populations grew as the world grew, spread, and there was more delicious variety of pain to thrive on. The train put wheels under them and here they run down the log road out of the Gothic and baroque; look at their wagons and coaches, the carving like medieval shrines, all of it stuff once drawn by horses, mules, or, maybe, men.

Some say that "there is no such thing as free lunch". And, I ask, why not? The joy of giving without expecting anything in return from a particular source is simply magic.

The subsistence mentality of a person is a prison in which his personal joy is detained. If you want to live in joy, you don't live for yourself alone. Live for others too!

Nothing is more egregious than greedy politicians.

We sat on the dusty floor like that for what felt like hours, our legs intertwined in the kneeling position. Like the demon and the angel reaching for one another on Jet__ arm, I felt half of everything. Half pure, half used. Locked in a dark, beautiful embrace. One I wouldn__ wish on anyone yet one I wouldn__ ever reverse if given the chance.Not when it had the power to save a life. - Skylla Warden

Some selfish people rise because some kind people haven't learned the art of saying no to them.