Dead. Never been that before. Not even once.

Death, I had discovered long ago, was available in varying flavors, and none of them particularly palatable.

Ill-fitting grammar are like ill-fitting shoes. You can get used to it for a bit, but then one day your toes fall off and you can't walk to the bathroom.

If you even think about asking Harry Potter for an autograph, your day ends right now.

I've got six months to sort out the hackers, get the Japanese knotweed under control and find an acceptable form of narcissus.

Whereas story is processed in the mind in a straightforward manner, poetry bypasses rational thought and goes straight to the limbic system and lights it up like a brushfire. It's the crack cocaine of the literary world.