Somewhere out there the world must have an end.

Poets yearn, of course, to be published, read, and understood, but they do little, if anything, to set themselves above the common herd and the daily grind.

I don't know the role I'm playing. I only know it's mine, non-convertible.

Is a decision made in advance really any kind of choice?

God was finally going to believe in a man both good and strong, but good and strong are still two different men.

Dying - you can't do that to a cat.

All imperfection is easier to tolerate if served up in small doses.