she’s mad, but she’s magic.
Her eyes always had a frantic, lost look. He could never cure her eyes of that.
If there are junk yards in hell, love is the dog that guards the gates.
Writing is like going to bed with a beautiful woman and afterwards she gets up, goes to her purse and gives me a handful of money.
Now something so sad has hold of us that the breath leaves and we can't even cry.
Animals never worry about Heaven or Hell. Neither do I. Maybe that's why we get along.