I know that I am very much like everybody else, but not really.

I would like to be a figment of my own imagination, but belly and bowels will not permit.

A dense undergrowth of extension cords sustains my upper world of lights, music, and machines of comfort.

The absolute has moved into the fortress of the absurd.

Ironic and jittery, we are puzzled by the old heroes with their fighting, boasting, and cocksure lovemaking.

Aphorisms know the angles, but not the structure.

Radical historians now the tell the story of Thanksgiving from the point of view of the turkey.