The truly great writer does not want to write. He wants the world to be a place in which he can live the life of the imagination.

Of all the possessions of this life fame is the noblest; when the body has sunk into the dust the great name still lives.

I hide my tears everytime I saw your picture 
But deep inside my heart I feels pain 
Although I smile and seems care free…
Every night I cry when I think of you…
My mind understand everything 
But my heart feels everything .
Daddy…I miss you so much actually.

He was the sort of person who stood on mountaintops during thunderstorms in wet copper armour shouting &#39;All the Gods are bastards.&#39;

Written By Terry Pratchett

About us

Featured posts

Featured Topics

Quick Links