I am at two with nature.
Abysmal vermin that I am, I couldn't of course tell her that it was her incredible mother that I wanted to see again… I knew only as I drove through the cold, night autumn air that somewhere Freud, Sophocles and Eugene O'Neill were laughing.
Marshall McLuhan predicted books would become art objects at some point. He was right.
I was thrown out of college for cheating on the metaphysics exam; I looked into the soul of the boy sitting next to me.
I have no idea what I am doing but incompetence has never prevented me from plunging in with enthusiasm.
I am thankful for laughter, except when milk comes out of my nose.