Reading Stephen King's book, On Writing, was like being cornered and forced to have a long, drawn out mental enema.
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Loving an old bachelor is always a no-win situation, and you come to terms with that early on, or you go away.
When the painting is hanging on your wall for a long time, you don't notice it. You get tired of it, even if it's a Picasso. When the next generation inherits the painting, they sell it. I don't want to be sold.

