Haven't you ever noticed how highways always get beautiful near the state capital?

Oak trees come out of acorns, no matter how unlikely that seems. An acorn is just a tree's way back into the ground. For another try. Another trip through. One life for another.

Me? What am I? Nothing. The legs on which dinner comes to the table, the arms by which cocktails enter the living room, the hands that drive cars. I am the eyes that see nothing, the ears that don't hear. I'm invisible too. They look and don't see me. When they move, I have to guess their direction and get myself out of the way.

One of my current pet theories is that the winter is a kind of evangelist, more subtle than Billy Graham, of course, but of the same stuff.

At the end of a marriage it is difficult to recall the beginning.

Haven't you ever noticed how highways always get beautiful near the state capital?

In brief, I spend half my time trying to learn the secrets of other writers - to apply them to the expression of my own thoughts.