I gathered we were headed over Nob Hill, and from the angle, it seemed we were taking one of the steeper routes.
Sorrow was like the wind. It came in gusts.
Read over your compositions, and wherever you meet with a passage which you think is particularly fine, strike it out.
A few seconds later, I tripped over a steel staircase, bashing my shins.
I don't like composers who think. It gets in the way of their plagiarism.
Youth is a wonderful thing. What a crime to waste it on children.
Everybody likes a kidder, but nobody lends him money.