Striving toward a goal puts a more pleasing construction on our advance toward death.
Alone, I am drunk on my thoughts; in company, I am sober again.
The perfect aphorism would achieve classical balance and then immediately upset it.
Like a frog, the aphorist waits for something to fly by that he can catch with his tongue.
I put second things first, and then worry about first things.
If you belong to the underclass, you are already guilty.