Every work of art is an uncommitted crime.
You know that feeling that’s in the air during the fall? There’s no words for it but you know the one I’m talking about. It’s harvest time. Most of us don’t even know what that means anymore but we still feel it in our bones. Whatever it is, it’s some deep, ancestral stuff. As L.M. Montgomery said, “I’m so glad to live in a world where there are Octobers.”
Whenever the world ever tries to tell you that you’re a steaming pile of crap, remember that it’s the very orifice that birthed you.
The best pizza is the pizza where, no matter what the toppings were, it doesn’t feel like you ate anything afterward. In some alchemical moment of glory between oven and mouth, the ingredients are transubstantiated into a weightless, formless panacea of deliciousness. You just walk around light as a feather feeling like God put a cloud of nutritiousness in your stomach. In case you guys were unaware, I like pizza A LOT.
To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.
Be the flower who even gives its fragrance to the hand that crushes it.