I am skeptical in principle, gullible in practice.

Gossip is dying out because fewer and fewer people care to talk about anything besides themselves.

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

Affection reproaches, but does not denounce.

Clothes make the body both mysterious and historical.

The Lady: a fluty voice, sensible shoes, a melancholy sense of living by rules few still remember.

The soul is no longer honored as it once was, but it still keeps appetite from being the measure of all things.