Good luck is just bad luck with its hair combed.

At nineteen, it seems to me, one has a right to be arrogant; time has usually not begun its stealthy and rotten subtractions. It takes away your hair and your jump-shot, according to a popular country song, but in truth it takes away a lot more than that.

One of life's great truths is this: when one is about to be struck by a speeding six-hundred pound Coke machine, one need worry about little else.

I saw something even more beautiful than a sense of humor: an appreciation for life’s essential absurdity.

You say true, I say thankya.

Your hair is winter fire January embers My heart burns there, too.

Do you believe in an afterlife?" the gunslinger asked him as Brown dropped three ears of hot corn onto his plate. Brown nodded. "I think this is it.