Every literary critic believes he will outwit history and have the last word.
I'm being treated like a sex object, cried the lady. No matter. I will take care of it, said Time soothingly.
Belief forages, moving from pasture to pasture.
My love grows wide and shallow in an effort to spread my losses.
As a comforter, philosophy cannot compete with a good dinner.
Complainers detest each other.