Before the mind snaps, or the heart breaks, it gather itself like a clock about to strike. It might even be said one pulls himself together to disintegrate.

What people believe is a measure of what they suffer.

The tuba is certainly the most intestinal of instruments, the very lower bowel of music.

Gluttony is an emotional escape, a sign something is eating us.

We are nothing but a string of gut on a stick of bone riding this piece of astral soot for one piteous splinter of eternity.

We turned on one another deep, drowned gazes, and exchanged a kiss that reduced my bones to rubber and my brain to gruel.

Look at it this way: Psychoanalysis is a permanent fad.