Sunday Parade

I say, is it not interesting enough to advise a man to “leave his motor running,” when he has no ignition switch anyway?


All parades eventually
circle back on themselves.
(They don’t really, but you
can’t make people around here
see otherwise.)


The reason that the “life of the writer” is such a popular subject with so many writers is that so may writers don’t know what to write about.


A heart broken chap told me that the cause of his dismay was the discovery that his neural partner had been unfaithful; had had an intellectual affair with some other thoughts.


One little god brought his little creatures up so well that when he told them, “The time has come when you should consider the matter of death,” they all replied, “Who the fuck cares!”


Everyone has this Great Task,
and most people manage
to make it teeny-weeny.



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