That's my only defense against this world: to build a sentence out of it.
I'm not rational enough to be a good journalist.
Birthdays are ghost bounty hunters that track you down to ask, "Que pasa, baby?
One of the curious effects of a bad hangover is that you think you're wrong whether you are or not. Not wrong in particulars, but wrong in general, wrong about everything.
Death steals everything except our stories.
Naturally we would prefer seven epiphanies a day and an earth not so apparently devoid of angels.