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There is a place where the sidewalk ends And before the street begins, And there the grass grows soft and white, And there the sun burns crimson bright, And there the moon-bird rests from his flight To cool in the peppermint wind. Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black And the dark street winds and bends. Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow, And watch where the chalk-white arrows go To the place where the sidewalk ends. Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow, And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go, For the children, they mark, and the children, they know The place where the sidewalk ends -Shel Silverstein There is no future in anything. I hope you agree. That is why I like it at war. Every day and every night there is a strong possibility that you will get killed and not have to write. I have to write to be happy whether I get paid for it or not. But it is terrible disease to be born with. I like to do it. Which is even worse. That makes it from a disease into a vice. Then I want to do it better than anybody has ever done it which makes it into an obsession. An obsession is terrible. Hope you haven't gotten any. Thats the only one I have left. - Ernest Hemingway me here inside this depth of betrayl consumed by your fear deflowered by your hate how can i stand up to you when all you do is push me down call me names and yet i do seems like always i come crawling back to you and as i lay forever knowing that you're the one one to protest me detest me even forget me (you'll never need me) I didn't write that one.

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