It's as if someone vacuumed up the horizon while we were looking the other way.

Life's a freaking mess. In fact, I'm going to tell Sarah we need to start a new philosophical movement: messessentialism instead of existentialism: For those who revel in the essential mess that is life. Because Gram's right, there's not one truth ever, just a bunch of stories, all going on at once, in our heads, in our hearts, all getting in the way of each other. It's all a beautiful calamitous mess. It's like the day Mr. James took us into the woods and cried triumphantly, "That's it! That's it!" to the dizzying cacophony of soloing instruments trying to make music together. That is it.

If bad luck knows who you are, become someone else.

The guy's life drunk, I think, makes Candide look like a sourpuss. Does he even know that death exists?

I suddenly feel left out of a future that isn't even going to happen.

No hot guys should be allowed to have an English accent and drive a motorcycle. Not to mention wear the leather jacket or sport the cool shades. Hot guys should be forced into footie pajamas.

We wish with our hands, that's what we do as artists.