What your mind sees when you close your eyes marks the entrance to an endless universe: your imagination.
The Gingerbread House has four walls, a roof, a door, a window, and a chimney. It is decorated with many sweet culinary delights on the outside.But on the inside there is nothing__nly the bare gingerbread walls.It is not a real house__ot until you decide to add a Gingerbread Room.That__ when the stories can move in.They will stay in residence for as long as you abstain from taking the first gingerbread bite.
The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration
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The Gingerbread House has four walls, a roof, a door, a window, and a chimney. It is decorated with many sweet culinary delights on the outside.But on the inside there is nothing__nly the bare gingerbread walls.It is not a real house__ot until you decide to add a Gingerbread Room.That__ when the stories can move in.They will stay in residence for as long as you abstain from taking the first gingerbread bite.
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No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone.
As survivors and procreators, we unravel stories that at their root are not dissimilar from the habitual behaviors seen in nature. But as beings who know they will die we digress into episodes and epics that are altogether dissociated from the natural world. We may isolate this awareness, distract ourselves from it, anchor our minds far from its shores, and sublimate it as a motif in our sagas. Yet at no time and in no place are we protected from being tapped on the shoulder and reminded, __ou__e going to die, you know._ However much we try to ignore it, our consciousness haunts us with this knowledge. Our heads were baptized in the font of death; they are doused with the horror of moribundity.
He stood there tall and dashing, peering down at her with a set of mesmerizing sapphire eyes. It wasn__ the eyes that had her sex-drive squealing into overdrive; it was that_hair. Now, Tarrah had never really been into redheads before, but damn, she sure as hell would be willing to convert.
So what__ your name?_ the stranger asked.Tarrah pulled his shirt away from her head and held out her hand. __arrah. Tarrah Reid.__e slipped his hand into hers, his cheeks stiffening as he held back a smile.Tarrah sighed, knowing exactly what he was thinking. She was completely aware of the fact that she held the name of a famous Hollywood actress. The association actually helped with her __hristmas floozy_ persona during the holidays, so she__ never really minded.
She'd been trained as a child no to trust anyone, but he'd just saved her life, and she was freezing. He could be a yeti for all she cared.