Poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese.
The brain is a wonderful organ. It starts working the moment you get up in the morning and does not stop until you get into the office.
It is not much for its beauty that makes a claim upon men's hearts, as for that subtle something, that quality of air that emanates from old trees, that so wonderfully changes and renews a weary spirit.
It is not enough to aim; you must hit.
I like coincidences. They make me wonder about destiny, and whether free will is an illusion or just a matter of perspective. They let me speculate on the idea of some master plan that, from time to time, we're allowed to see out of the corner of our eye.
I was the kid next door's imaginary friend.
No man remains quite what he was when he recognizes himself.