Hope is like yeast, you know, rising under warmth.

Routine is worry's sly assassin.

It is one thing to say you're at war with this whole world and stick your chest out believing it, but when the world shows up with it's crushing numbers and its predatory knowledge, it is another thing completely.

Let me say something about that word: miracle. For too long it's been used to characterize things or events that, though pleasant, are entirely normal. Peeping chicks at Easter time, spring generally, a clear sunrise after an overcast week--a miracle, people say, as if they've been educated from greeting cards.

What else exhausts like sustained deception?

Fresh peach pie can lift a bullying reprobate into apologetic courtesy; I have watched it happen.

You can embark on new and steeper versions of your old sins, you know, and cry tears while doing it that are genuine as any.