Death should take more care with his paperwork.

Reality is like a fruitcake; pretty enough to look at but with all sorts of nasty things lurking just beneath the surface.

The wisest man knows he know nothing.

Quiet descended, a silence so consuming that even the drafty corridors ceased whistling. Bog wasn't certain where to look, so he solved the problem by plucking out his eyes and sticking them in a drawer.

In the middle of nowhere, along a quiet stretch of road, the diner dreamt of the hungry dead. And of two men.

Those who write are writers. Those who wait are waiters.

He gives me the hairy eyeball, and asks me to help him find his pancreas.