I Write What I'd Like

A Twinge At The Edge Of Her Lips And She Continued, The Soft, Slow Lilt Of Recitation: "ancient Walls That Sing The Distant Hours.

...which Fairy-tale Princess Ever Chose Her Maid Over Her Prince?

Cassandra Always Hid When She Read, Though She Never Quite Knew Why. It Was As If She Couldn't Shake The Guilty Suspicion That She Was Being Lazy, That Surrendering Herself So Completely To Something So Enjoyable Must Surely Be Wrong. But Surrender She Did. Let Herself Drop Through The Rabbit Hole And Into A Tale Of Magic And Mystery.

There's A Market For Mysteries For Adults. That Feeling Of Opening A Book And Delving Inside And Not Coming Out Until You've Closed The Book.

If You Don't Stop Apologizing, You're Going To Convince Me You've Done Something Wrong.