After the leaves have fallen, we returnTo a plain sense of things. It is as ifWe had come to an end of the imagination, Inanimate in an inert savoir.

The exceeding brightness of this early sunMakes me conceive how dark I have become.

A pear should come to the table popped with juice, Ripened in warmth and served in warmth. On termsLike these, autumn beguiles the fatalist.

From oriole to crow, note the declineIn music. Crow is realist. But, then, Oriole, also, may be realist.

We say God and the imagination are one . . .How high that highest candle lights the dark.

Poetry is a finikin thing of airThat lives uncertainly and not for longYet radiantly beyond much lustier blurs.

A job is a temporary need

The light shines brighter on our path.

Am I a human? Yes. Then I like The Princess Bride.

I am never going to do an Empire Strikes Back ending again in a game, even if they put branding irons to my feet.

Self-realization: No ego, no desires, no weight problems, no tax forms, no death to die, no life to live.

Your children are not little mirrors reflecting back the good or bad job you've done.

A speaker who does not strike oil in ten minutes should stop boring.

Birds are not free since Men have invented cages.

Going out to eat is expensive. I was out at one restaurant and they didn't have prices on the menu. Just faces with different expressions of horror.