I Didn't Know He Was Dead; I

I Had A Mad Impulse To Throw You Down On The Lunar Surface And Commit Interstellar Perversion With You.

The Talent For Being Happy Is Appreciating And Liking What You Have, Instead Of What You Don't Have.

Please Forgive Me. My Pedicurist Had A Stroke. She Fell Forward Onto The Orange Stick And Plunged It Into My Toe. It Required Bandaging.

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.

She Wore A Short Skirt And A Tight Sweater And Her Figure Described A Set Of Parabolas That Could Cause Cardiac Arrest In A Yak.