She's got a big belt around her hips. It has a shiny buckle with PRADA on it, which is Italian for insecure.

Airports should all belong to the same country. The country of Crappacia. Or Bleakovania. Or Suckitan.

Come on you raver, you seer of visions, come on you painter, you piper, you prisoner, and shine.

Because just for a few seconds, someone else hurts, too. For just a few seconds, I'm not alone.

I struggled for a long time to get anything published.

The King walks. He nods. His glance is like God's touch - under it all things spring to life. A wave of his hand and a hundred musicians tear into the Handel, making a sound you've never heard before, and never will again. A sound that goes through you, through flesh and bone, and reorders the very beat of your heart.

She was everything he wanted from his life, the very measure of his dreams.