Fair is whatever God wants to do.

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.

So thoughtlessly we sling on our destinies.

When a person dies, the earth is generally unwilling to cough him back up. A miracle contradicts the will of earth.

It is one thing to be sick of your own infirmities and another to understand that the people you love most are sick of them also. You are very near then to being friendless in the world.

Routine is worry's sly assassin.

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