The sky was the color of Edgar Allan Poe's pajamas.

What is politics, after all, but the compulsion to preside over property and make other peoples' decisions for them?

At birth, we emerge from dream soup. At death, we sink back into dream soup. In between soups, there is a crossing of dry land. Life is a portage.

The only authority I respect is the one that causes butterflies to fly south in fall and north in springtime.

There's no point in saving the world if it means losing the moon.

Conservatives understand Halloween, liberals only understand Christmas. If you want to control a population, don't give it social services, give it a scary adversary.

We're making it up. The world, the universe, life, reality. Especially reality.