Place. Limits. Liberty.
My road isn’t wide enough for people who don’t live on it.
Who could resist—especially at that price?
God didn’t put twelve months on the calendar so we could work them all.
Those who think “nostalgia” is a bad word marking a bad sentiment can pucker my yonder socket.
I’ll return when, looking from the woods, I see total fenestrated darkness.
Thank God—sorry: thank progress, rather—for that million-year window!
This life is no trick, no accident.
He was looking at me with what appeared to be some degree of disbelief.
What machine can match a pair of legs?
No one. But that awaits demonstration.
I think about growing a mullet this summer.
But, as Shakespeare wrote, we sometimes “by indirections find directions out.”
How about a little one-on-one, full court press?
Valentine’s day is a trick on suckers.
If you think you may legitimately enjoy the physical benefits of a place while dwelling in the airy regions of judgment above it, you’d better think again.
There’s nothing the smell of this can’t solve.
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