We both know dad was my parental trash can, the fatherly receptacle on whom I dumped my emotions.

I wonder how many tears the ocean has swallowed, how much of the ocean is actually made of tears.

Sure, I’m gray-shading the line that separates stable and crazy, but the point is, there is a line. And I haven’t completely crossed over to lunatic.

My dad always told me that holding a grudge is like swallowing poison and expecting the other person to die.

I assume these structures are made for siting?

Nice shack

I like the idea of feeling small. Sometimes life can seem bigger than you, you know? But knowing you're less than a speck in the whole scheme of things takes the pressure off, sort of.

Funny how a little sleep, a little makeup, and a lot of contemplating can make you feel like a different person - a stronger version of yourself.

Morning tide makes a great companion when you don't want to be around people. It soothes and comforts and doesn't ask for anything.

But pessimism and reality are usually mistaken for each other

Q: When did you realize you wanted to be a w

If you wrote something for which someone sent you a check, if you cashed the check and it didn't bounce, and if you then paid the light bill with the money, I consider you talented.

Sometimes the smallest things are so damn unforgivable. Maybe because they aren't small—they only seem that way to someone else. You never know what someone holds scared until it's too late.

The Gray Man hated his current rental car. He got the distinct impression it hadn't been handled enough by humans when it was young, and now it would never be pleasant to be around.

Quit talkin' about it and be about it!

If in the last few years you have not discarded a major opinion or acquired a new one, check your pulse. You may be dead.

Make your decisions with your heart, and you'll end up with heart disease.

When the word 'nostalgia' was coined in the 18th century, it was used to describe a pathology - not so much a sense of lost time, but a severe homesickness.

Two per cent. is genius, and ninety-eight per cent. is hard work.

Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!