Rise early. Write. Disappoint your sons. Read the newspaper. Go to bed early. Success.

I still feel-kind of temporary about myself.

The Devil is precise; the marks of his presence are definite as stone.

Never fight fair with a stranger, boy. You'll never get out of the jungle that way.

And yet one can't forever stand on the shore; at some point, even if filled with indecision, skepticism, reservation and doubt, you either jump in or concede that life is forever elsewhere.

After all the highways, and the trains, and the appointments, and the years, you end up worth more dead than alive.

If I see an ending, I can work backward.