There's a notion I'd like to see buried: the ordinary person. Ridiculous. There is no ordinary person.

And yet, in each human coupling, a thousand million sperm vie for a single egg. Multiply those odds by countless generations, against the odds of your ancestors being alive; meeting; siring this precise son; that exact daughter... Until your mother loves a man she has every reason to hate, and of that union, of the thousand million children competing for fertilization, it was you, only you, that emerged. To distill so specific a form from that chaos of improbability, like turning air to gold... that is the crowning unlikelihood. The thermodynamic miracle.

The world's a stage, & everything else is Vaudeville.

It may be true that the only reason the comic book industry now exists is for this purpose, to create characters for movies, board games and other types of merchandise.

It seems strange that my life should end in such a terrible place, but for three years I had roses, and apologized to no one.

That pompous phrase (graphic novel) was thought up by some idiot in the marketing department of DC. I prefer to call them Big Expensive Comics.

Why do we argue? Life's so fragile, a successful virus clinging to a speck of mud, suspended in endless nothing.