I am quite certain that God would breathe a cosmic sigh of relief if people stopped believing.
Everyone is fragile–especially those who seem impenetrable.
Nothing brings home my ultimate aloneness quite like polite conversation.
Perfection is boring because it leaves our imaginations with very little to do. Why laud the beauty of something whose very essence lauds itself?
Sometimes I look for words. Other times they look for me.
It is the sort of romance that would compel me to write a sonnet if I could only find the words.
I am not intelligent enough to know, but I am clever enough to occasionally seem like I do.
Better an interesting mistake than a mundane success.