I had my jazz club and I had enough money. So I didn't have to write for my living.

I used to think the years would go by in order, that you get older one year at a time. But it's not like that. It happens overnight.

Isn't life strange? There are people who have so many leftover clothes they can't stuff them all in their wardrobe. And then there are people like me, whose socks never match.

Judging the mistakes of strangers is an easy thing to do - and it feels pretty good.

Time passes slowly. Nobody says a word, everyone lost in quiet reading. One person sits at a desk jotting down notes, but the rest are sitting there silently, not moving, totally absorbed. Just like me.

But if you knew you might not be able to see it again tomorrow, everything would suddenly become special and precious, wouldn’t it?

Is it possible to become friends with a butterfly?