Writing gives you the illusion of control, and then you realize it's just an illusion, that people are going to bring their own stuff into it.
Cheerfulness, it would appear, is a matter which depends fully as much on the state of things within, as on the state of things without and around us.
The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
Van was screaming something and Jolu was shouting and I looked at them for a second and that was when someone put a coarse.
The freedom of all is essential to my freedom.
What if this weren't a hypothetical question?
Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.