The Sad Truth Is The

I Wrote Rick Before I Was Published, And I Had No Vision Of It, Really. It Was Just A Story That Occurred To Me, And That Put Its Little Claws In My Brain, And I Wrote It, And I Showed It To A Couple People, And They All Said, "this Is Ghastly."

Neither Were You [born Yesterday], Unless Of Course I Am Wrong, In Which Case Welcome To The World, Little Baby, And Congratulations On Learning To Read So Early In Life.

Wicked People Never Have Time For Reading. It's One Of The Reasons For Their Wickedness.

Stretched Out In Front Of Me Was My Time As An Adult, And Then A Skeleton, And Then Nothing Except Perhaps A Few Books On A Few Shelves.

Everyone, At Some Point In Their Lives, Wakes Up In The Middle Of The Night With The Feeling That They Are All Alone In The World, And That Nobody Loves Them Now And That Nobody Will Ever Love Them, And That They Will Never Have A Decent Night's Sleep Again And Will Spend Their Lives Wandering Blearily Around A Loveless Landscape, Hoping Desperately That Their Circumstances Will Improve, But Suspecting, In Their Heart Of Hearts, That They Will Remain Unloved Forever. The Best Thing To Do In These Circumstances Is To Wake Somebody Else Up, So That They Can Feel This Way, Too.