The perfect aphorism would achieve classical balance and then immediately upset it.
A dense undergrowth of extension cords sustains my upper world of lights, music, and machines of comfort.
The New York action painters want their pictures to jump off the walls and chase you down the street.
Like love, grief fades in and out.
A skyscraper is a boast in glass and steel.
Guilt stirs me, but only to self-pity.