A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines. Each time I go out to walk the dog. Things have come to that. And each night I get the same number. And when they will not come to e counted I count the holes they leave.
Nobody sings anymore.
Only she on her knees, Peeking in to her own clasped hands. This file is deditcated to the prevention of ignorance. All though, if you wished to remain the way you were, you shouldn't have read this file.