A Mystery Is Solved With

I’m Not A Romantic, I’m A Half-wit. Only Stupid People Would Think I’m Smart. I’m Not Something Anyone Should Know. I’m A Lunatic Wandering Around For Scraps, I’m Like Every Single Miserable Moron I’ve Scorned And Pretended I Didn’t Recognize. I’m All Of Them, Every Last Ugly Thing In A Bad Last-minute Costume. I’m Not Different, Not At All, Not Different From Any Other Speck Of A Thing. I’m A Blemished Blemish, A Ruined Ruin, A Stained Wreck So Failed I Can’t See What I Used To Be.

It Is Not Always The Job Of People Shouting Outside Impressive Buildings To Solve Problems. It Is Often The Job Of The People Inside, Who Have Paper, Pens, Desks, And An Impressive View.

I Am Certain That Over The Course Of Your Own Life, You Have Noticed That People's Rooms Reflect Their Personalities. In My Room, For Instance, I Have Gathered A Collection Of Objects That Are Important To Me, Including A Dusty Accordion On Which I Can Play A Few Sad Songs, A Large Bundle Of Notes On The Activities Of The Baudelaire Orphans, And A Blurry Photograph, Taken A Very Long Time Ago, Of A Woman Whose Name Is Beatrice. These Are Items That Are Very Precious And Dear To Me.

Occasionally There Are Parents Who Say, "i Brought My Child So He Or She Could Learn What The Career Of A Writer Is Like, And You Did This Long Theatrical Performance Instead, And I'm Very Disappointed."

I’d Ruin Any Day, All My Days, For Those Long Nights With You, And I Did.