What do drunkards do? They... drink... themselves... to... death.

I found the poems in the fields, And only wrote them down.

Music. A meaningless acceleration in the rhythm of celestial experience.

He gave me a gift, a surprise. It was my first present in this place so far from home.

As usual I was working the graveyard shift—an irony I reveled in—at an emergency call center. What other shift would a vampire feel comfortable working?

I hear the cheers when they roared and the jeers when they echoed.

If you keep your feathers well oiled the water of criticism will run off as from a duck's back.

Me racist? The only race I hate is the one you have to run.

Capitalism begins with giving.

Now blessings light on him that first invented this same sleep. It covers a man all over, thoughts and all, like a cloak.

Invention in photography is so laborious as to be in most instances perverse.