It Was A Long Time Ago Now.

I Spent Four Years Doing A Doctorate In Postmodern American Literature. I Can Recognize It When I See It.

I Feel As If I’m Waiting For Something Dreadful To Happen, And Then I Realize It Already Has.

Time Was A Thief, He Stole Your Life Away From You And The Only Way You Could Get It Back Was To Outwit Him And Snatch It Right Back.

She Should Have Done Science, Not Spent All Her Time With Her Head In Novels. Novels Gave You A Completely False Idea About Life, They Told Lies And They Implied There Were Endings When In Reality There Were No Endings, Everything Just Went On And On And On.

When You Chopped Logs With The Ax And They Split Open They Smelled Beautiful, Like Christmas. But When You Split Someone's Head Open It Smelled Like Abattoir And Quite Overpowered The Scent Of The Wild Lilacs You'd Cut And Brought Into The House Only This Morning, Which Was Already Another Life.