Routine feeds the illusion of safety.

Routine feeds the illusion of safety.

Blessed are the meek, for to them we shall say "attaboy".

This story is not and never was meant to challenge anyone's faith; however, if one's faith can be shaken by stories in a humorous novel, one may have a bit more praying to do.

Little-boy love...the cleanest pain I've ever known. Love without desire, conditions, or limits - a pure and radiant glow in the heart that could make me giddy and sad and glorious all at once. Where does it go? Why, in all their experiments, did the Magi never try to capture that purity in a bottle? Perhaps they couldn't.

You were supposed to empathize with your friend's problem, but they were, after all, your friend's problems.

He was a writer and words were his weapons.