Some Drink Deeply From The River Of

What If Nothing Exists And We're All In Somebody's Dream? Or What's Worse, What If Only That Fat Guy In The Third Row Exists?

When I Was Kidnapped, My Parents Snapped Into Action. They Rented Out My Room.

That’s One Of The Nice Things About Writing, Or Any Art; If The Thing’s Real, It Just Lives. All The Attendant Hoopla About It, The Success Over It Or The Critical Rejection—none Of That Really Matters. In The End, The Thing Will Survive Or Not On Its Own Merits. Not That Immortality Via Art Is Any Big Deal. Truffaut Died, And We All Felt Awful About It, And There Were The Appropriate Eulogies, And His Wonderful Films Live On. But It’s Not Much Help To Truffaut.

The Dictatorship Is Shut Up, Democracy Is Always Concerned.

In My House I'm The Boss, My Wife Is Just The Decision Maker.