Being, I imagine, must be very simple. It is Becoming which is so messy and which I am all for.

You know, exams are like war -- the birth rate of ideas goes up. Anything to keep from this dismal regimen, says poor mind, and hopefully tosses up another distraction.

Any chance beats no chance.

Passing in any crowd are secret people whose hidden response to beauty is the desire to tear it into bleeding meat.

You can understand why a system would seek information - but why in hell does it offer information? Why do we strive to be understood? Why is a refusal to accept communication so painful?

I am one of those that always get accidentally guillotined when the Great Day of Liberation comes, because ... I guess ... I am full of parentheses. Revolutions can't abide parentheses.

Anyone who shoots a real gun at you when drunk and angry is simply not husband material, regardless of his taste in literature.