Your mind's always juggling, isn't it?-mirrors, torches, plates.

So few want to be rebels anymore. And out of those few, most, like myself, scare easily.

Not to write, for many of us, is to die. We must take ares each and every day, perhaps knowing that the battle cannot be entirely won, but fight we must, if only a gentle bout. The smallest effort to win means, at the end of each day, a sort of victory.

Let the world burn through you. Throw the prism light, white hot, on paper.

There is more than one way to burn a book. And the world is full of people running about with lit matches.

I'm numb and I'm tired. Too much has happened today. I feel as if I'd been out in a pounding rain for forty-eight hours without an umbrella or a coat. I'm soaked to the skin with emotion.

Remember, Montag, we're the happiness boys. We stand against the small tide of those who want to make everyone unhappy with conflicting theory and thought.