Sorrow was like the wind. It came in gusts.
All the world's a cage.
Terrorists killed a lot fewer people than bathroom falls and accidental electrocutions.
The scornful nostril and the high head gather not the odors that lie on the track of truth.
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.
I must create a system, or be enslaved by another man's.
Silence is one of the hardest arguments to refute.