Avant-garde art jousts with propriety, but takes care never to unseat it.
Seeing my malevolent face in the mirror, my benevolent soul shrinks back.
The modest youth somehow knows just what to do for the cameras.
Rescue someone unwilling to look after himself, and he will cling to you like a dangerous illness.
Death is hacking away at my address book and party lists.
At the end of every diet, the path curves back to the trough.