Whether it’s behind closed doors, or submerged in a web of lies, people succumb to guilty pleasures in innocent ways, more often than they realize. But we comfort ourselves by insisting that maybe it’s not so wrong, after all. It’s as if we plant the seeds of the forbidden fruit, knowing we can’t reap the fruit of our labor, in all its succulent glory. But we water it regardless, in hopes no one will see the tree grow. And even then, one bite just leaves you hungry for more.
It’s like the proverb of the tree in the forest… if no one knows, does that make you innocent until proven guilty?
abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz. At your local library they have these arranged in ways that can make you cry, giggle, love, hate, wonder, ponder, and understand. It's astonishing to see what these twenty-six little marks can do. In Shakespeare's hands they became Hamlet. Mark Twain wound them into Huckleberry Finn. James Joyce twisted them into Ulysses. Gibbon pounded them into The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. John Milton shaped them into Paradise Lost.
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