I'm not the man my father wanted me to be; I'm so much better.
A week after I left home I reached the royal city with no money and no one to go to. I was wandering the dark middle layer, not metaphorically between the dark and the light, but literally skirting the edges. I reached into my pocket, looking for enough money for a place to stay for the evening and found this instead, a torn page from one of the books I loved and my father never respected. It won't buy me anything--put food in my stomach, or a roof over my head--but it's worth the weight of my future, worth a freight zeppelin's haul.
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
Is there anything that uplifts you, even though other people think it's silly?
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