People like you to be something, preferably what they are.
There's an awful lot of inactive kindness which is nothing but laziness, not wanting any trouble, confusion, or effort.
Thoughts are slow and deep and golden in the morning.
He is so stupid you can't trust him with an idea.
Ideas are like rabbits. You get a couple and learn how to handle them, and pretty soon you have a dozen.
Orange and speckled and fluted nudibranchs slide gracefully over the rocks, their skirts waving like the dresses of Spanish dancers.