You know, the usual story. Once upon a time I was playing my harp by a spring when a fairy appeared out of nowhere, handed me a Beretta Model 92, and told me to shoot the white rabbit over there for target practice.

The fresh smell of coffee soon wafted through the apartment, the smell that separates night from day.

The best way to think about reality, I had decided, was to get as far away from it as possible.

Whoa!" he says with a smile. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepen. "Chicken salad a la George Orwell!

Things may look different to you than they did before. I've had that experience myself. But don't let appearances fool you. There's only one reality.

Once a guy starts using a wig, he has to keep using one. It's, like, his fate. That's why wig makers make such huge profits. I hate to say it, but they're like drug dealers.

I couldn't tell wether the hole that opened up inside me was from missing you or from the change of season