You Work Hard On A Book And

I Strain To Hear, But My Old Ears, For All Their Obscene Hugeness, Pick Up Nothing But Snippets.

He Stares At Me, And Then Leans Back In His Chair. "he's Ill, Jacob." I Say Nothing. "he's A Paragon Schnitzophonic." "he's What?!" "paragon Schnitzophonic," Repeats Uncle Al. "you Mean Paranoid Schizophrenic?" "sure. Whatever. But The Bottom Line Is He's Mad As A Hatter.

We Traveled For Two Weeks With A Pickled Hippo.

The More Distressing The Memory, The More Persistent It's Presence.

Do You Have Any Idea How Much An Elephant Drinks?