One Way An Author Dies A Little

While He Was Watching The Ships, Buttercup Shoved Him With All Her Strength Remaining. [...] Down Went The Man In Black. [...] "you Can Die Too For All I Care," She Said, And Then She Turned Away. Words Followed Her. Whispered From Far, Weak And Warm And Familiar. "as...you...wish..."

I Have Stayed These Years In My Hovel Because Of You. I Have Taught Myself Languages Because Of You. I Have Made My Body Strong Because I Thought You Might Be Pleased By A Strong Body. I Have Lived My Life With Only The Prayer That Some Sudden Dawn You Might Glance In My Direction. I Have Not Known A Moment In Years When The Sight Of You Did Not Send My Heart Careening Against My Rib Cage. I Have Not Known A Night When Your Visage Did Not Accompany Me To Sleep. There Has Not Been A Morning When You Did Not Flutter Behind My Waking Eyelids.

He's Right On Top Of Us. I Wonder If He Is Using The Same Wind We Are Using.

One Way An Author Dies A Little Each Day Is When His Books Go Out Of Print.

My Westley Will Come For Me.