If I could do it over, I'd do better.

We come into the world alone. We go away the same. We're meant to spend the interlude between in closeness or so we tell ourselves. But it's a long way from the morning to the evening.

Once I thought ideas were exceptions not the rule. That is not so. Ideas are so plentiful that they ride on air. You have only to reach out and snatch one.

Cats have it all - admiration, an endless sleep, and company only when they want it.

Watch the indolent butterfly playing on the tall flower in the yard and think about the sun going down. It always does you know.

People are not born bastards. They have to work at it.

I cannot speculate on what our cluttered mind will save- sleepy Sundays, or a nosebleed after love. I know only the dying heart needs the nourishment of memory to live beyond too many winters.