The things that matter don't necessarily make sense.

If reality had a stage door I'd hang around there to see what comes out after the show.

Sometimes there's nothing but Sundays for weeks on end. Why can't they move Sunday to the middle of the week so you could put it in the OUT tray on your desk?

Is there an existence that is only mine?

It's almost as if we're put here on earth to show how silly they aren't.

Language is an archaeological vehicle... the language we speak is a whole palimpsest of human effort and history.

I believe that most of us would like to be thought well of by horses.