Men emerge pale from the little printing plant at four sharp, ghosts for an instant, blinking, until the outdoor light overcomes the look of constant indoor light clinging to them.

Life is like an overlong drama through which we sit being nagged by the vague memories of having read the reviews.

Most of American life consists of driving somewhere and then returning home, wondering why the hell you went.

Life is a video game. No matter how good you get, you are always zapped in the end.