"This is awful. This is not fun drunk."
I got up and cleared the coffee table out of the way so the Colonel could walk the length of the room without hitting any obstacles, and said, "Okay, can you stand?"
The Colonel pushed his arms into the foam of the couch and began to rise, but then fell backward onto the couch, lying on his back. "Spinning room," he observed. "Gonna puke."
It’s not imaginary. It’s my great perhaps.
I wondered whether I could find a Great Perhaps here at all or whether I had made a grand miscalculation.
The pigs can’t stop the fox; I’m too quick. I can rhyme while I run; I’m that slick.
This mystery can’t be solved. We have to live with that for the rest of our lives.
And I wrote my way out of the labyrinth.
Not to ask the obvious question, but why Alaska?
The only way out of the labyrinth of suffering is to forgive.
My question? It has no answer.
When I look at my room, I see a girl who loves books.
How will we ever get out of this labyrinth of suffering?
Sometimes you lose a battle. But mischief always wins the war.
That swan is the spawn of Satan. Never get closer to it than we are now.
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