Life is a disease, sexually transmitted and fatal.

I was kidnapped by aliens, they came down from outer space with ray guns, but I fooled them by wearing a wig and laughing in a foreign accent, and I escaped.

When writing a novel, that's pretty much entirely what life turns into: 'House burned down. Car stolen. Cat exploded. Did 1500 easy words, so all in all it was a pretty good day.

The boy had the towering arrogance only seen in the greatest of artists and all nine-year-old boys.

Doing fine, thank you, I would say, never knowing how to talk about what I do. If I could talk about it, I would not have to do it. I make art, sometimes I make true art, and sometimes it fills the empty places in my heart. Some of them. Not all.

From meetings and partings none can ever escape. Nor from magic.

Talk is free but the wise man chooses when to spend his words.