I don't understand you. You don't understand me. What else do we have in common?

Some changes are so slow, you don't notice them, others are so fast, they don't notice you.

More books have resulted from somebody's need to write than from anybody's need to read.

I can face anything, except the future, and certain parts of the past and present.

Things are sometimes better left as they are, but you can't be sure until you change them.

What should I do if my problems aren't all solved by the time I die?

Accept me for what I am, completely unacceptable.