Age is a peculiar kind of thief. It slips up on you and steps inside your skin and is so quiet and methodical in its work that you never realize it has stolen your youth until you look into the mirror one morning and see a man you don't recognize.

Age is a clever thief. It takes a little from you each day, so you're not aware of your loss until it'd irreversible.

One day you'll have a quiet heart.

A lie is an act of theft. It steals peoples faith and makes them resent themselves

To misuse one's talent, to be cavalier about it, to set it aside because of fear or sloth is unpardonable.

In the alluvial sweep of the land, I thought I could see the past and the present and the future all at once, as though time were not sequential in nature but took place without a beginning or an end, like a flash of green light rippling outward from the center of creation, not unlike a dream inside the mind of God.

Why do I always feel like you're trying to staple my umbilical cord to the corner of your desk?