How can He be perfect? Everything He ever makes...dies.
One can never know for sure what a deserted area looks like.
There are only two types of motorists: the idiots who drive slower than me, and the lunatics who go faster.
I go to bed early; my favorite dream comes on at nine.
I have things that are strident and confrontational, and I have a lot of things that are childlike and innocent and sort of sweet. So, somewhere in between lies the middle of me.
Capitalism tries for a delicate balance: It attempts to work things out so that everyone gets just enough stuff to keep them from getting violent and trying to take other people’s stuff.