Every art is a church without communicants, presided over by a parish of the respectable. An artist is born kneeling; he fights to stand. A critic, by nature of the judgment seat, is born sitting.
How clerks love refusing. It salves them for being clerks.
In a family, the same spoken lines come in over and over. Intimacy exhausts.
Decades go faster toward the end of a century.
perhaps there's no sharper spur to meditation than answered prayer.
'Ms.' is a syllable which sounds like a bumble bee is breaking wind.