You will become way less concerned with what other people think of you when you realize how seldom they do.

Every love story is a ghost story.

It's like a fugue of evaded responsibility.

Dostoevski informs everybody; or he ought to.

So which is the lie? Hard or soft? Silence or time?

I have filled 3 Mead notebooks trying to figure out whether it was Them or Just Me.

Mary had a little lamb, its fleece electrostatic / And everywhere Mary went, the lights became erratic.