Nostalgia paints a smile on the stony face of the past.
Drugs bring us to to the gates of paradise, then keep us from entering.
No chaos, no creation. Evidence: the kitchen at mealtime.
What I eat turns into my body. What I read turns into my mind.
Men and women would be even more unhappy if they really understood one another.
In New York, pretending to be above the struggle means no seat on the bus and a table next to the kitchen.