What are these voices outside love's open door, make us throw off our contentment, and beg for something more?
This year, notoriety got confused with fame, and the devil is down hearted because there is nothing left for him to claim.
We're being treated to the wisdom of some puffed up, little fart. Doing exactly what I used to do, pretensions to anarchy and art.
Insect politics, indifferent universe. Bang your head against the wall, but apathy is worse.
Some records with drum machines on them sound phony and plastic. It all depends on how you use the tools.
Arm chair warriors often fail.
I have a certain pool of subject matter that I like to write about, things that interest me: politics, religion, ecology, and relationships between men and women. And that's usually what I focus on.
It was a pretty good year for predators.
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