Art is a form of catharsis.
London is satisfied, Paris is resigned, but New York is always hopeful.
Summer makes me drowsy. Autumn makes me sing. Winter's pretty lousy, but I hate Spring.
The sun's gone dim, and the moon's gone black. For I loved him, and he didn't love back.
Now to me, Edith looks like something that would eat her young.
Money cannot buy health, but I'd settle for a diamond-studded wheelchair.