Oh, I adore to cook. It makes me feel so mindless in a worthwhile way.

Clocks indeed must have their sacrifice: what is death but an offering to time and eternity?

That's not writing, that's typing

Shoot, boy, the country's just fulla folks what knows everything, and don't understand nothing, just fullofem.

Some cities, like wrapped boxes under Christmas trees, conceal unexpected gifts, secret delights. Some cities will always remain wrapped boxes, containers of riddles never to be solved, nor even to be seen by vacationing visitors, or, for that matter, the most inquisitive, persistent travelers.

That's the question: is truth an illusion, or is illusion truth, or are they essentially the same? Myself, I don't care what anybody says about me as long as it isn't true.

Most secrets should never be told, but especially those that are more menacing to the listener than to the teller.