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.

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?