The mist hung in the air like a prancing unicorn.

Your mind is a cupboard and you stock the shelves.

Outside, daylight was bleeding slowly toward dusk.

Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely.

Life is a journey. Time is a river. The door is aja

it's colder than a witch's tit in a steel bra

Boredom was my bedmate and it was hogging the sheets.

Once a flower is picked it immediately begins to die.

Story is metaphor for life and life is lived in time.

We begin in the world as anagrams of our antecedents.

Failure is the condiment that gives success its flavor.

If London is a watercolor, New York is an oil painting.

But metaphors help eliminate what separates you and me.

Anger is the wind which blows out the lamp of the mind.

My master gives me bread and beer and every good thing.