Dear, I can't write, it's all a fantasy: a kind of circling obsession.
One of the quainter quirks of life is that we shall never know who dies on the dame day as we do ourselves.
Depression is to me as daffodils were to Wordsworth.
Something, like nothing, happens anywhere.
The chromatic scale is what you use to give the effect of drinking a quinine martini and having an enema simultaneously.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.